


A Compendium of Folk Stories (and Other Findings)

by fewlmewn (Shouriko)



Series: D&D Original Stories [8]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Creation Myth, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Tale Curses, Folklore, Hallucinations, Human Sacrifice, Magical Artifacts, Mystery, Original Character(s), Poetry, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Serial Killers, Supernatural Elements, Time Loop, Town of Witchbarn, Treasure Hunting, Tricksters, Urban Legends, Witches, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-11-15 08:16:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18069833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shouriko/pseuds/fewlmewn
Summary: Famous children's book author Nessalee Wisphop was born in Briar Rock to Gernon Pebbler and Wendalyn Wisphop, of the Citrine Glade's Wisphops. After intense studies with the Dwarves at the Stoneset Academy and a degree in Ancient Lore, Nessalee Wisphop decided to bring the stories of old to children, with refreshing and much less gory retellings of local folklore and mythology. Her first anthology - "Gnomes and Friends From Under the Mountain", with enchanted watercolor illustrations by the late Mistress Cindera Elenthiel - was a bestseller throughout the three Nations, and children and parent alike, all the way to Saha, have grown enamoured with Wisphop's work. After a long period of inactivity, during which she was believed to have retired, rumours of a new Nessalee Wisphop book have resurfaced across literary circles. From out of nowhere, "A Compendium of Folk Stories (and Other Findings)" appeared on the shelves of every bookstore, seemingly published, delivered and stocked by unseen assistants. Customers flocked to read the brand new unearthed tales collected and told by Nessalee Wisphop, but no one knows of the author's whereabouts. - Langley Lowrett for The Salvaged Screed Bulletin





	1. If One Spring, On a Winter Solstice’s Night…

The children call her _Bellyaches_ , because of all the rumbling that comes from the woods, and their parents advise them not to wander into the shade.

Lumberjacks know better than to touch the trees that surround her house, and any business is conducted well away from that side of the town.

People in the streets whisper of her, never raising their voices, never finding proof to their assumptions. Some say she’s a dragon in disguise, others wonder if she isn’t a Fae creature, banished from her Realm. None dare speak of this for more than a brief moment, and any deduction turns into scattered rumor, coalesces into legend – to feed the myth of Bellyaches.

 

All is quiet in the town of Witchbarn. A lazy creek is slowly thawing, frigid curls of frost unraveling along its banks. Blades of ice float downstream, splintering from the bulk with dull creaks that ripple in the water. A passerby sighs, and casts a forlorn gaze to the dormant mill at the edge of town. Wishful thinking that it’ll resume its duties soon.

The market square isn’t too far. Never ones to boast here in Witchbarn, the founder made it so that the stone-tiled square was a modest spot of land in the town center. Not adorned by statues or flowerbeds, but instead brought to life by cheerful children and colorful peddlers. The nearby belfry has long since been retired, and it’s now the only structure of note. It casts a long, narrow shade. It’s nothing too pompous, but now that the tower serves no actual purpose, if it were for the mayor it would’ve already been brought down. As it stands, it’s a nice respite from the burning white winter sunshine.

A handful of colorful, snow-dappled wagons sit in a circle in the center of the town square, and this is where the vision of the founder of Witchbarn comes to life. Red tents, periwinkle banners, golden silks hung from a rickety wooden stand – all of them bring a spark of joy, and the wares the merchants display are the purview of the hamlet’s citizens.

Spring is just around the corner, and despite the fact that the winter solstice has been a long while ago, icicles still adorn roofs and windowsills, sparkling in the light of day and shining of the familiar hearth fire past the frosted window panes once night falls. They are slow to melt, and when morning comes, they seem to have formed once again. Morning dew is frozen in place by the chilly winds that move through town, picking up skirts and cloaks, turning everything it touches into an ice-encased sculpture, at least until the noon sun does its work.

The bridge bisecting Witchbarn is known to be perilous around this time of year. Frequent passage has made the stone smooth, and many a villager has been found sat on their aching bottom at the feet of the bridge, cursing under their breath at the ice. When it happens, quivering screeches fill the bridge for a split second before quiet falls, and all that can be heard is the sound of feet scrambling and dancing to maintain balance.

Such are mornings around Witchbarn; with the occasional “Ah!” or whispered swearing, and the subdued, meek calls from peddlers settled around the square, desperately looking to catch the ear of some housewife or busybody rushing across town. But not too loud – never too loud; lest the Witch be awakened.

_Don’t poke Bellyaches._

_Don’t stir the crone in the grove._

_Rattle the hag and you’re doomed._

_Touch the barn and turn into a marionette, but if you touch the witch you’ll be King._

_Scream and she’ll come in the night to pluck your eyes and put them in your ears._

_Be quiet or you’ll wake her. And if you do, she’ll haunt you, cut your head, put a spell on it and carry it around in a basket, and you’ll have to sing her lullabies for the rest of forever to put her back to sleep._

There are many sayings and tales told around town, always in a hush. For the outsider, Witchbarn is just a sleepy town that wants for little, content with its boring, slow-moving existence. For locals, it’s quite the hassle to go through a day without ever raising one’s voice, but they have long since accepted that this is just how Witchbarn is like. There are far worse places to be than a town that must stay silent.

Everything is silent in the quiet, quaint little town of Witchbarn. Even the birds sing sporadically, only when strictly necessary, and owls hoot so low it barely sounds real. The creek knows best than to pick up speed, no matter how much everyone wishes it did, and lumberjacks venture far outside the boundaries of town before they find a good tree to fell.

Nestled in the Emerald Groves, the town is far enough from civilization to carry on undisturbed and unbothered, with only the occasional questing traveller, who is quickly discouraged by the haunting tales of Bellyaches that the locals are quick to spread.

The woods are dotted by small, clear ponds, and serene fields of wildflowers stretch as far as the eye can see along the path of the sunrays, breaching through the underbrush and blooming past the shade cast by the towering oaks. Or at least, they used to.

Every night a gentle, fluffy blanket of snow falls and covers the timid buds, burying them for one day more.

It’s peaceful. It feels safe. It feels like time has stopped moving in this secluded corner of the Groves. Perhaps it has, but the villagers can’t help but wish for spring to come quickly. For the creek to thaw and for the mill to resume production; for flowers to bloom and for the snow to melt. For children to be free once more to laugh and cry to a scraped knee, for the bell tower to sing in celebration or in mourning again.

All the people of Witchbarn want is for the Witch to awaken from her slumber.


	2. The Heavenly Vacancy and the Starfall

Wandering across the Northern Woods, many a traveller has found respite and shelter in one of countless little hamlets, hidden away near steep cliffs, woven into the face of a mountain, secluded behind rows of towering evergreen pines. A quaint collection of log cabins, or stone-built cottages, or packed-dirt burrows, all gathered around a forgotten stretch of road that only the foolish or lost adventurer could manage to find. The settlements are so small in fact, that throwing a stone from one end of town would hit the wall of the furthest house. Curiously, each of these near-forgotten villages has taken it upon themselves to leave some empty space for a new building, yet to be erected.

Even in a village populated by goblin-kind, whose name many struggle to mention, and where the homes of those who live here consist of rickety shacks and holes in the ground, there is an unmistakable hole. As if something had been ripped out, plucked from between the measly row of houses, and taken away from the people. Sometimes neighbours fondly recall a time when that space used to be filled; one innkeeper, from a Halfling village where homes are polished stone domes covered in vines and with round holes for windows, regularly tells of when business used to flourish – when travellers came from every corner of the Nation to witness the All-Light.

Every village is missing something. Many don’t remember what it is. Many more were barely alive when the space emptied, leaving only a stretch of land where something else used to be. Many others were born long after, knowing only of that empty lot of unused soil, and wondering why no one builds anything else in its place, or plants a garden in that spot, or ever talks about the missing piece, really.

Wandering across the Northern Woods, many a traveller has found a place to rest along different and colourful civilizations, tucked away from the trade routes and content with life as a community who’s had a hole punched into its weave.

The pattern is clear – any traveller accustomed to the ways of the Gods above and below would be able to tell. What the villages are missing is a temple. Nearly every towns has an inn, no matter how ramshackle or incredibly well kept it might be; most towns have a general store, where one could purchase rations and simple cloths; some towns have a measly jail or town hall, where the appointed leader of the community carries out judgment if need be. But none have a temple.

Odd as it might be, considering how prone to accident and mauling the locals and visitors are this deep into the woods, none of the villagers seem to mind. Those who remember the time when the empty spot used to be filled could swear that the temple is soon bound to return.

The oldest of Gnolls and Gnomes alike, who populate this stretch of the Northern Woods, all seem to be united in the reassurance that the All-Light is fast approaching.

 

Through travels and research, one could eventually discover, if the season strikes true at the time of one’s passage, that every hamlet seems to be united under the same holy day, even when the distance between one town and the next comes close to the several hundred miles.

They call it _The Commemoration of Starfall_. A recurring anniversary of the day when a comet strode across the night sky, westbound and beautiful. Crowned by a full moon and encircled by infinite siblings in the blue-black velvet blanket overhead, this one spark was plucked by divine hand from the loom like a shimmering thread, only to be passed across all of creation on a clear summer’s night. Heathens and the lawless found faith on that night forgotten by history, and began praying, and chanting, and each tiny, forgotten community single-mindedly decided to establish a shrine, or temple, or altar, dedicated to the event known as Starfall.

Such was its beauty, that many left their homes in search of the fallen star, believing that at the end of its sparkling path was a prophet or deity to be found – someone or something that could redeem each and every one of their faithless existences.

None could find the crater where the star was supposed to have sunken into. By the time the year came to a close, a similar event struck the skies. Not another falling star, but the phantom trail of the one that had crossed the night the previous year. A vision, a fateful reminder not to give up their quest.

Countless priests and monks have departed their native land since, seeking the star beyond the mountains, behind the horizon. It’s believed that if the comet ever did reach the land below, it must’ve sunken to the depths of the oceans.

Expeditions took a toll on the villages, and conflicts brewed – such is the nature of sentient beings. Too proud and jealous to share the Starfall’s beauty amongst themselves. Until one day, every church, sanctum and place of worship disappeared from sight in scorn. For weeks none would dare cross the threshold were the temples used to be, too afraid to stumble into some wicked, malign spell that would’ve erased them from reality as well. Then, a cub wandered where a towering Firbolg totem used to be, revealing that it had not been invisible all along, but truly gone.

Since then, memory faded, and all that is left is the Commemoration, where the faithful that remain recall of a blessed time when everything was perfect, if for a beautiful, wondrous moment, stretched to infinity to wrap past the night sky.

On the anniversary of Starfall, across the countless hidden and forgotten hamlets that bring solace and safety to the lost traveller, one could barely even see the shimmer above, now, and only if one knows to look for it. Those who wander past these villages should count themselves lucky to have found civilization in the most remote of places, where anyone – from Bugbear to Elf, from talking tree to Human – has enough mercy in their hearts to give help to the stranded adventurer, in remembrance of the lost tale of the beauty of Starfall.

 

It is said that one day someone shall find the Cradle of the All-Light, the place where the lost Star which was plucked from the sky to bring joy and good into the world has fallen, and return the light within it to its rightful place in the constellations that illuminate all of creation. In doing so, all shall know perpetual happiness, and every shrine, sanctuary and holy place will be returned, to allow everyone to know of the All-Light’s beauty.


	3. A Maiden's Voyage

Answering the mystery of the disappearance of Lady Chateline Gildenheart means looking into the business of nobility and aristocracy, but following the (presumed) late lady’s trail infallibly brings one to more unsavoury locales. Never mind court intrigue; her vanishing leads away from that and into unexpected places.

Her ladyship was known to be pure as summer rain, both in spirit as well as in the flesh, but those who still remember her name now, 40 years after her last sighting, recall more interesting details about her character. Prone to gambling and never one to refuse a stiff drink, the way she downed whiskey or drained a mug of ale told a different story than the one her strict family would like to see circulating among the population. The picture of a meek girl, split between study and prayer, soon to be wedded to a handsome prince from foreign lands. Traded for diplomacy, rather. Lady Gildenheart would nod and smile within her family estate, but the trouble she got up to, even at her young age, told of a certain rebelliousness.

A fair and kind-hearted woman still, Lady Chateline undoubtedly meddled with those her father would’ve once called “lowlifes”; pickpockets, hustlers, and sailors addicted to one or many of the pleasures of life, welcomed naïve, young “Chatty” Gildenheart in their midst, showing her the lifestyle led by commoners. She’d sneak out from her rooms when visiting a new city with her family or with her tutors, and would sneak into the most interesting and colourful of places.

Stories of feather-weight Chatty drinking a dwarf under the table in a back-alley joint near the docks are still sung by the more grumpy progeny of the sailor in question. Some speculate foul play, only to catch themselves mid-sentence when they remember that the young girl disappeared without a trace.

But researching the mystery of Lady Chateline doesn’t stop here. No, it brings one further west – into the seas – and further south.

 

When she heard of her arranged marriage to some stranger from the southern isles she immediately decided that one could not rig a game with no rules, so she had to get creative.

She proposed the niftiest of plans to her parents, to ensure that the barbaric affair of selling one’s daughter to a foreigner could have the most interesting, exciting and unpredictable outcome.

She proposed a marriage at sea.

She was to travel south by vessel, meet the groom where storms brew fierce and waves roil with immeasurable power. Her cunning was so sharp that she even found the perfect explanation for such a foolish plan to feed her to her questioning retinue – certainly a marriage contracted this way could withstand anything! Gods willing, the blessing that bride and groom would earn through this treacherous union at sea shall be indissoluble.

Initially, the plan was to charter one of Chatty’s friends’ ships. The friend was a roguish captain, prone to piracy, who’d sooner see her own ship working for the King than seeing her good friend Chatty married off to a stranger. The charming captain wanted to help, by any means she could muster.

Sensing Chateline’s propensity for daredevilry and tricks, her parents thwarted her plan, organising a most boring and uneventful journey aboard one of the Nereids.

The Nereids belong to a special fleet and are built to withstand the elements, due to the fact that such vessels often find themselves sailing in the wake of storms. They serve a peculiar purpose; they are rescue vessels, meant to chase after shipwrecks, disasters and isolated lands to look for survivors or lost goods, and recover the precious cargo. As it stands, most of the crew on a Nereid consists of nuns, healers, wizened map-makers and jaded old men. Sailing with a Nereid never shapes up to be much fun, and seeing maimed sailors, drowned deckhands and the husks of countless rafts in the stillness of a black, endless ocean certainly takes a toll on one’s spirits.

Last anyone had heard or seen of Lady Chateline Gildenheart, she was boarding a Nereid vessel known as “Justice of the Sea”. On its maiden voyage, the Justice had just breached the barnacle-encrusted edges of the marina, straight out of the dockyard, and was to set sail towards a certain archipelago known for harbouring all manners of criminals and escaped mutineers.

The premise was already more interesting than the Gildenhearts had accounted for, but the watchful eye of the Justice’s captain – a retired watchman who had pledged his service to law and order even after a life-threatening duel had put a stop to his swordsman’s days – would’ve ensured a tranquil journey without shenanigans for little Chateline.

The girl was meant to reach her betrothed’s fleet halfway between her home and the dreaded archipelago, and she would’ve been none the wiser of the true mission of the Justice – to recover precious cargo and wanted individuals, who had turned against their captain and believed to be dead by their compatriots on land. Word had reached the city watch that it wasn’t so, and a Nereid was dispatched at the earliest convenience.

The ship leaves the port; Chateline sits bored out of her mind below deck; the groom is believed to have departed for a similar journey. But this is where Lady Gildenheart’s trail dries and, eventually, ends.

Abruptly and lost to the seas.

All that is known, is that the Nereid known as Justice of the Sea never returned to its native harbour, and neither did Chateline. Many believe her to have died – shipwrecked and forgotten, relinquished to a watery grave, but the whereabouts of the Justice do not add up to such a fate. No signs of storms, no sightings of wreckage anywhere around the nearby coasts and coves.

Rumours have it that Chatty eventually wore down on the stoic captain of the Justice and, as the law-abiding fellow that he was known to be, he decided to plot along with the girl to stop her unwanted marriage. He turned the ship towards sun-kissed beaches and left Chateline to live out her days with a different identity, on new lands. Afterwards, as sailors and storytellers in every tavern and watering hole this side of the ocean say, the Justice must’ve shipwrecked far from its intended route. Caught off guard by seasonal tropical storms, known to occur further west.

Very few want to believe or even spread the version of the story that would have the captain follow through with Chatty’s plan, only to be trapped in a storm before the girl has a chance to reach freedom. Everyone wants to think that Chatty made it.

 

If one’s researching such a disappearance, one should be prepared to meet a sour ending. Perhaps one that closes with a tragedy, or one that has no ending at all, suspended in time and shrouded in mystery, the truth never to be uncovered. After much research and sleuthing, one should know better than to give in to flights of fancy and whimsical tales. After all, what could possibly have happened to the Justice of the Sea and to Lady Chateline Gildenheart, as far from everything as they were, alone in the middle of the ocean? The possibilities are limited by chance, and infinite if one gives into fantasy.

But if one keeps one’s feet on the ground, the rumours of a phantom ship – flying the same colours as a Nereid is wont to do and of the same make the Justice is told to have been, nonetheless – witnessed as it navigates the seas around a certain archipelago, then sound like pure folly. How could the journey of one such ships turn into an accursed sight, one to give sailors nightmares and known to bring madness to those that behold it?

In the end, if one’s bent on solving some lady’s disappearance, one should be ready to hear all sorts of impossible tales, and returning home with more doubts than those one had when first embarking on such a feat. Indeed, one should ready themselves for disappointment.

After all, what vanishing would be worthy of such a name if just anybody could come along and meddle, and unveil the truth from dry land?

In this instance, the very least one could do when poised to solve a mystery at sea is to get one’s toes in the water…


	4. The Ring of Many Tricks

_Sleuthing for urban legends and odd rumours across several townships, I have encountered some of the most strange and near unbelievable of stories…_

Some Lord, known for his malevolence and greed, started behaving in a very peculiar way to say the least, one day after gathering the riches left behind by one of his advisors, who had perished during a hunting trip to the woods. After the man’s death, his belongings and estate had been under his Lord’s control – both due to the fact that the advisor had no next of kin to speak of, as well as to the fact that the town’s Lord seized any and all property at his whim.

Servants and maids at this Lord’s court noticed the man shifting between bouts of pure malice, and moments of uncharacteristic generosity, going from a season of severe taxation upon the townspeople, to a summer dedicated to charity work and prayer. Through it all, however, the man had grown incredibly jealous of his possessions, a trait he didn’t have prior to his advisor’s death. Even in those moments where the Lord seemed nearly possessed by otherworldly entities, stopping mid-sentence to caress a child’s cheek, or going out of his way to drop a pocketful of coins in a vagabond’s hand, he was fiercely defensive of his private collection, which he kept under lock and key within his estate.

Stories of the oddities surrounding this man spread thanks to the loquacity of urchins in the streets, and the very jesters he employed for the purpose of entertainment for himself and his attendants, so it should surprise no one that within the space of a scant few months, the secrecy surrounding the Lord’s riches had been breached already.

The man had apparently begun collecting all sorts of odds and ends, ranging from the quirky marshlands’ trinket or carnival memento, to downright rubbish. All preferred not to bring this up with the man, both because of the trespassing, and because his “treasure” was not worth losing one’s head about. The Lord indeed treated those worthless objects as if they’d been great riches, piles of gold or jewels, and invaluable artefacts, when in truth it was quite the opposite.

Heads did roll, nonetheless, seeing as the man had grown more violent and deceptive when he wasn’t taken over by mercy and kindness, urging his people to begin referring to him as the Mad Lord – under their breath, of course. His behaviour became more and more deranged and unpredictable, and it was around this point, when it seemed like he was living two different lives within the same body, that he started talking to himself.

Into his hand, to be more exact…

_The rumours of this Mad Lord are lost to time, and it’s near impossible to track down a location, a name, or a reason why he acted as he did. Probably because by the end of his rule he’d executed any witness who could recall what had gone down in the town. Many speculate some kind of Fae involvement to explain his choices; others more kindly suggest that the man had simply gone insane, with his already voluble behaviour making the malady unseen, leaving him to battle with visions and voices on his own, unaided._

_But the rumours of general strangeness and odd behaviour, which undoubtedly populate any society’s local folklore and cultural flavour, continue with more stories to be unearthed – this time pertaining to a specific location. The lost village of_ Bast _, deep under the sands of the Scorching Wastes of modern Emera._

Centuries, perhaps millennia ago, when Bast was still populated by the ancient elven civilizations of old, who breathed life into the Land, there are tales of a certain creature – mythical and magical in nature…

When Bast was still a sprawling village, deep-set in luscious greenery more akin to a jungle than the current scorched landscape where it is believed to be located, the veil between this plane and the home to all Fey creatures was near impalpable, granting free passage to a number of otherworldly sprites and folks. Much of the world was yet to be shaped, and these beings’ involvement was key in order to grant the Land that touch of whimsy that should be present in all of creation. As such, it’s not rare to hear of odd flowers and plants being grown out of nothing for no purpose other than to bring to our world flora as beautiful as it is deathly; to hear of toads and lizards and insects of vibrant colours, but with the most painful of defences against a living hand or other appendage. These creatures’ involvement explains why so much of our society went on to become a duality between perfection and fatal flaw.

Recalled as fairy tale by many tribes of druids or dwellers of the wilds, – in great part due to the probable involvement of actual fairies – the legends surrounding Bast are more akin to a myth of creation that to a urban legend. These tales never fail to mention the idyllic nature of the village, the beauty of the town and its surrounding verdant jungle, and the capricious lifestyle of its inhabitants. These elfin and Fae creatures were so taken by their daily chores, busy moulding flora and fauna, that when the time came for revelry it was an unabashed, debauched affair, rife with mind-altering substances, mind-numbing spirits, and all sorts of entertaining trickery. With the start of each new day of work, all of them had to sort out the repercussions of their games, finding with much displeasure that the tasks ahead of them had been made even harder to complete, now.

Children listening to this tale should garner that any kind of excess is bound to be a danger, threatening their role in society; but as an adult, the prospect of unrestrained relaxation after a hard day’s work doesn’t sound as bad as it probably should, even against all cautioning.

And in the middle of this picturesque proto-society was a distinguished figure. Told to be half man, half animal, different sources mention different ancestry for the supposed leader of the village of Bast – legs of goat, or wings like an eagle; body of a lion, or tail of donkey. The common denominator was the creature’s penchant for trouble wherever it went. And with the near-infinite magical power granted by the well that was the barrier between planes, open like a faucet for the taking, the creature crafted a magical artefact that could help him carry out chore and game alike.

_Piecing different stories together, it’s fairly evident that the object could be none other than an enchanted ring, full of potential and surprises for the bearer and those around them._

Legend has it that by speaking words into the artefact, a fragment of the Faeweald would lend itself to the asker:

By asking a question, it is told that the artefact would utter an answer.

By asking for aid, it is told that the artefact would summon a useful aid into the owner’s hand.

It is also said that, by nature of the artefact’s maker, if the object ever fell into a stranger’s hands it would begin behaving strangely, desperately pushing to return to its creator.

This manifested in the form of discordant whispers and visions; object spontaneously conjured by the artefact to litter the bearer’s person and abode; and incredibly rotten luck in the worst of times, paired with unlikely fortune in the oddest of moments.

As centuries passed, the artefact must’ve been misplaced, lost, or perhaps given to others on purpose, to satisfy its maker’s desire for chaos and entertainment once the creation of the Land had come to a halt, and with the destruction of Bast and the veil between worlds. Stranded, the original owner perhaps went on to inhabit the pocket dimension within the “ring”, finding some solace in the energy left behind inside of it. Other stories would have the maker of the artefact closely keeping watch over his toy, turning invisible and following each new owner – it is said that the artefact carries a curse, seeing as the final moments of its bearer are always accompanied by a tragicomic death and roaring laughter.

 _It’s quite clear that those who’ve been witnessed collecting strange trinkets, being mercurial, hallucinating and following unseen orders, must’ve been bewitched and under the thrall of this magical artefact – what I would call “_ The Ring of Many Tricks _”._


	5. Findings on the Butcher by the Water

_In the interest of privacy, and in order not to jeopardise an on-going investigation on one of the most dreadful killers in recent times, I have collected stories, notes and songs that talk of what has been dubbed the “_ Butcher by the water _”. Undoubtedly, those who have had the misfortune to live in the same city where the murderer is said to be doing what they please, or those who’ve been cautioned countless times about the dangers this figure poses, will already know where the Butcher’s killing grounds are; but again, in order to uphold the maximum confidentiality and protect victim and survivor alike, I shall name no names._

 

 

_Found as a torn, sodden and blood-stained note near the entrance of a hovel, next to the sewers, in front of the docks, this “song” is a short poem or reflection, likely written by a very imaginative child as a way to cope with the harsh reality of the slums. With unsure and unsteady script, it tells of a family tragedy which had befallen a family, following the Butcher’s attacks._

**The Song of the Peg Leg** _(by Anonymous)_

Squished like rats in a too-small cage, hungry like the gulls at the end of fishing season.

Pockets as empty as sailors’ - picked clean by whores.

Feet hurting from hiding in the shallow water.

Meat cleaver catching light in the backroom.

Pools of red like tangled fish guts and bleached white bone.

Four brothers and four sisters turn seven-and-a-half.

Mommy wailing and skipping down the docks.

Daddy screaming and jumping with a rock.

There’s room for more in the too-small cage; rats swarm and the house sits empty.

Brothers and sisters scatter to the winds, gone with the boats at the start of fishing season.

One sister and a half sharpen sticks to poke at crabs.

 

 

_A salvaged newspaper article, recovered from a paper funnel used to hold deep-fried herrings, forgotten on the floor of a local tavern. It advises that the townspeople beware the murderer and follow a curfew, due to the lack of a reinforced guard presence even after previous attacks._

-lear how officials are taking the situation lightly, with reduced patr-

-ecome a question of “how soon”, rather than a matter of “if” another

caution all living in the western side of town to stay inside when it rai-

-ot go outside after dusk. Travel in pairs, and children should be watc-

_Below is an equally broken paragraph of the same text, this time translated in crude gnomish._

 

_Under it, a different column, reported for the sake of thoroughness, on the annual Farmers’ Fair._

On the **15 th** & **17 th** from sunset to midnight in the market square: **The Clearweed Quintet** will perform folk songs and other ballads. Dancing is encouraged!

On the **16 th** next to the Mallory Brothers’ apple stand, in front of the “Art of Gold” pawnbroker: **Yanissa J. LeWin** will sing their latest composition, accompanied by an enchanted lightshow and strings.

Sign up for the annual “Best in Show” crop competition at the **Floating Lantern Inn**. Application fee: 3 copper for one crop; 1 silver for 5 crops. Prices range from gold to a year-long supply of _Madam Wicker’s Well-Grown Serum_ , and you could be the lucky winner of an all-inclusive vacation aboard the **Sea Squanderer** cruise ship!

 

 

 _Further south, as I travelled looking to recover more stories and legends, I came across some interesting bits of local history that have bone-chilling similarities with what has been occurring with the_ “Butcher by the water _”. The attacks seem to always be heinous in nature, and always take place near the water, in port towns, along major rivers, or on isles in the middle of the sea; hence the name given by both authorities and civilians to the monster that has been threatening peace all over the coast._

_One such instance of similar themes is an old poem, said to have been written by an Emeran sailor’s wife as she mourned her husband’s fate at sea. But perhaps, she was recalling a much different event than what readers have assumed until now. Translated from the original Emeran dialect into Common._

 

 **A Different Fate** _by Anonymous_

On that day my soul grew silent

Deep into that calming darkness

Stillborn hope of wings unfurling

My mind always strays to slaughter.

 

I dream of claws and insect bites

Of phantom steeds and rearing ships

Rain keeps falling over eyes

Until I lay this flesh to sleep.


	6. The Trail of Trials

A long lost legend tells that upon the creation of the world as we know it, several entities who had taken part in its inception left behind something of themselves. A morsel of power, a hidden path that a keen observer could find and follow, a decaying shrine allowing them to seek worship even after their departure. Religions and cults blossomed when all living creatures began looking for guidance; in a world where the mothers, fathers and unknowable entities who gave birth to all the races were long gone, everyone, from the fair folk to the mountain dwellers, from monsters beneath the earth to the creatures in the skies and seas, started searching and calling down and beyond, deep across the Planes, for a voice from the forefathers, from the creators.

What we call “gods” is a company of entities that by design we cannot know, cannot be understood – only dreamed of and seen in dreams, visions and through prayer and faith. Followers of this deity and that have long battled and proselytized in favour of their Patron, seeking boons and signs that could’ve perhaps elevated them above other cults. Those closest to their deity never fail to flaunt the connection, and oftentimes use it to gain money and riches, selling their beliefs in exchange for personal gains, or anything that could help their following get that much closer still to the God they worship.

Through the aimless centuries of roving and settling down, and departing again in search of a sign from the gods, few things beyond mortal fallacy and hubris have guided the hordes and waves of civilization. Often, a leader or a priest would point their finger in a random direction and elevate themselves to something of a prophet by doing so; other times stupidity and an excess of gullibleness would have entire religions blindly worshipping any old trinket as if it were a precious treasure with eons of history and immeasurable power.

I don’t consider myself above these people by much, but by virtue of my studies and my research into the mundane and incredible, I’ve found ways to discern a direction in the muck of it all.

Gods are messy. They tend to forget things, they live by a rule of excess and pride. I can count the deities that genuinely value true, pure and selfless worship on my fingers; the rest are just petty.

Perhaps I’m cynical, perhaps in life I’ve failed to see the good of these entities. I might tend to underestimate them, or write them off as mercurial observers to a stage play they created and abandoned without direction. We, the actors and champions who populate the tale that is life, have been left to our own devices, blind to the bigger picture, to the interweaving threads of fate, and the consequence is that we, without fail, end up severing several of them, tangling the fishing line until it’s unusable and has to be ditched entirely, missing the end of the skein and spending entire lifetimes and more desperately looking for a new direction, hopefully less disastrous than the first.

I have experienced the kind of failure that derives from this sense of loss, I’ve known the abandonment it brings forth.

I decided to seek out a new direction for myself, by myself, untrusting of “gods” and what have you.

 

 

Unfortunately, I͉͙͓͈͔̰̲̻͓̣̣͖̳̜̝̟͛́͒̐͂͊͊̐̈́ͫ̋̾͛͆ͧ̈̌̈̾͟ ̶̙͓̫͓̞̱̫̄̔̂ͣͮͨ̕͜͠ḑ̷̤̝̭̝͎͓̞̰̱͚͉̖͈͙͙͉̹͈ͮͤ̉ͧͭͩ̑ͤͮ̃ͨͧ͘e̴͖̤͇͈͙͖̯͓̝̦̟̩͕̝͑̑̓̂́͂̎̽͂̌ͅc̷̹̬͇̝͈̞͖̩̖̤̥͕̤̳̿ͨ͛̎͒̅ͩ̇ͤ͘͢͡i̱̤̝̝̳͖̬̔ͨ̂ͬ̾̔ͦ̑̒͢d̴̡ͬ̇ͨ̂ͭ̚͞͏̩̰̺̳̠̱̱̺͉͔̤̪e͍̦͈̰̟͕̱͉̞̙̱̊ͥ̾ͭ̎͗ͣͣͭ͋̇̾͐͑̊͑̆͒̏d̜̰̬̠͓͙̯̤̪̼ͥ̅͐͐̔̾ͯͮ͡͠ͅ ̗̫̣̯̯̝̦͔͓̳͖̲̲̺̳̫͓͔̽̋ͫ̂̀͘͜t̸̸̷͗̉͂ͩ̍ͥ͌͌ͫ͏̘̪̦̳͎o̸̡̮͉̖̝̞͚̱͈̗͛̆ͫ̂͑̋̆͜͠ ͆̈́͑ͭ̏͂͋̂̂́̀̈̔͆̔҉̶̖̫̺͖̹͎̙̹̟̪͜͝ͅt̛̛̹̖̯͖̣̟̩̜̻̦̰͙̙̘̝͈ͤ͆̅͋̒͐́ͯ̽̐̔͋ą̸̱̳̰͔̭̝͖̇͂̊̉͐̕͝k̶ͫͣ̒͌̀̑̉ͧ̽̿ͪ̂ͥͭͧ̾̊ͪͧ҉̣̙͇̯͙̯̻͉͙̣͚̣̦̙̥̮̻̺ę̶̡͕͖̣̭̘͚͙͔͙̰̩̭͚̠̱̞̤͚͒̅̓̍ͮ ̡̨̩̞͎̬̘̲̟̲̤̥̺̮̲͈̻̺̃̇̓̇͠͝͝ͅṯ̨̛̩̦̫͈̰̠͈̰̭͔̙̤̲͚̺̹̐̿̊͒̌̐͗̈́͗̐̒͢͡ͅh̡̰̠̩̩̹̪͍͙̯̟̼̗ͤ̅ͧ̽̏͒͒̈̓̉ͪͤ̋ͬ̕͟͡e̡̽ͪ͂͑͊̓͐̿̆ͪ̂̌̉̾͂ͪ̀ͦ͏͓̜̲̺̺ ̶̪̺͔̜̹̠͚̰̣͍͙̗̤͔͇͓̮̦͖̿ͮ͂̓͆ͫ͡m̸̱̰͙͍̠̳͈̹̝͕͎͉̬͙̫͚ͦͯ̀̾ͥ͊͛̈́̽̍̒̀̈͐͂a̵̷͕̯̫̙̦̲͔͕̣̩̥͇̩̞̱̫̝̓́̐̈́ͣ̄̽̿ͯͬͭͭ͒͌̚t̶̵̴̡̻̺̲̦͖ͤ̎ͧ̃͐̑̅̓̌̅́͋t͖͇͇̯̱̱̗̠̂̐̍͊̐͗͛̒̿̈́̈́ͯ͟ḙ̶̷̥̱̞͓̤͍̳̠͓͇͉͚̙̰̙̉̈̅̊͒ͮͮͬ̚̕͡͞ͅr̸̶͍̪̪͓͌͗̏͐̅͗̏͆͐͒ͤ̍̄̕ ̵͇̬͉̣̪͕̹̘͚̬̤̥̓ͮͥ̽̅ͨ͊̿̾̅̕iͨ̍ͭ̋҉̘̼͉̯̙͎͉̗̪̙̥̤̖̩͉̝ņ̴̵̡́ͧ̑̔ͯ͂ͥ͊͛ͩ͏̦̱̘̤̗̼͖̲͚̯ ̵̡̆̃͐̈́͗͆̋̈́͛̄̀̌҉̻̫͚̼̯m̪͚̰͈͕̙̬̜̙͙̰͔̻̬ͪ͊͌̊̈ͭ̂ͭ̑̇͗̄̇ͭͤ̚̚͢͝y̴̵̱͙̱̙̯̞͍̗̻̤͍̥̺̮̤͍̖̣̲̒͂̀̏̓́ͭ͂͂ͩ̊̎̚͠͞ ̵͎̮̺̣̗̪̦̎ͮ̐̎ͮ̽͛͛̑̐̿̃̽̂̂ͭ̚͘͟o̢̿ͨ̋ͫ̽̔̊̽̈͏̛҉̼̱̳͔̺̩̻͚̼̪ͅẇ̶̢̻̭̻̪̗ͥ̃ͬͣͬ͛ͦͮ̉ͦͣ̔̎̚n͐͊ͫ̃͋̎͂͊̓̓̓̚̕͏̵͙͍̙̘̭̠̥͔̞̰̗̤̜͓̫̣̠͝ͅ ̨̛̩̬̞̮͚͕͑̾̏ͨ̌͊̈́͂̕h̷̵͂͆̒͗̾͗̃̔ͩ̃ͥͣ͌͐ͣ͟͏͚̞̰̫̺̳̺â͍͔̪̺̟͙̝͌̉ͬ̒͋͆̆̿̊̂͗ͨ̕̕͝͞ͅņ̰̦̱̼̞͇̰̖̣̯̫̹̳͎̬̰̲͙ͤͬͨͯ̑͋ͮ̂̈ͬ̏͜d̸̪̻͙͈͖̗̟̳̮̯̻͕̺̰̿̒̋̎͌ͯͩ́̑ͮ̐̓͛͢͟ͅs̢̗̱̞̜̳̲̲͉͇͈͍̱͖̜̿͆̒ͩ̎͆̅̎ͨ̈̈́͛ͨ̽̔͜ ̸̧͉͓̙͚̫͈͇̩̲̹̐͊̔̓ͪ̑̆̓̍͒ͥ̅͆ͥ̒ͦ̆̚ą̴̵̩͈͈͚͗̓̐̎̌̐ͪͮ̌̀̅̇̍̉ͫ̅ͭ̕͢ń͔̣̙̦͓̗̗̥̺̼̙̖̞̏̐̓̕͟ḑ̴̻̣̪̬̣͚̦̩̬͎̯ͤͦ̃̑̒̆͌̏̀ͧͤ̾ͣ,̛͎̖̭̞̹͓̺̻͓̺̈̋̄̔͆̋ͣ̋͐͘͘͡ ̨̐̈́͆̐̐́̇͑̐ͨ̽ͧ̀̐̑̉̚̚҉̨̯̤͚͉̤̻̲̠͖̩̭̭͎̼̟̫͓ͅf̶̶̖͚͚͖͖͖̭̳̣͉̓̐͗̃̆͊̔͜͢͡o̴ͥ̾̒̑̇͌͛̇͟͏̧̜̟̖͍̹͖̦̺o̸̷̷̳̖̣͖̠̼̙̦͚͖̹̠͇͍ͧ̈ͣͤͬ̅̈́̍̇̍͒̇ͨ̽ͮ̃͂ͅl̡̝͉̻͓̞͖͖̜̓ͮͬͭ͊̏̊͛͛̽̾̄̏ͩ͠͡i̸͔̻̫̻̰̻ͤͯͮ͂̉ͤͥ͂ͩ̔͊ͣ̇̔ͧͪ̅̉̏̕͟ͅͅͅͅs̡̻͇̰͉̹͙̒͐ͮ̈́̓̈́ͤ̄ͤ̃̈̋͝͡ͅh̷̹̬̮̲͕̮̳͉͖͚̯̙͇̮̤͑͊ͯ̈́̎̾̚l̛̤̺͖͓̟̯̻̲͍̳͔̘̩͎̍̈̔̉͗̿ͧ̎͞ͅẏ̛͎̻̬̘̭̻̞̓̽̂͐̍ͨ̊̽̊͌̔̏̽̄͜͝ ̸̤͍̳̮͉͚̖̈̐̍̆̅ͨ̿͌̉ͨͤͮ͑́ͤ̔͑̑͘s̶̨̅̇̿͌͒͌̚͘͏͎̮̰̣ͅŏ̢͔̲̞̲̻̬̜̠̟̮̘̬̣ͬͦ͛ͦͮ͐̄͊ͣ̕,̸͖̹̥̟̪̟͔̺̹͓͙̮̥̠̗̪̒ͣ͒̎͂ͤ͑͆̓ͪ̈́ͦ̃̽͑̚̚̕͞͞ ́̾̋ͪ͌͘͠͏̷͉̜̹̰̼͔̜ͅI̭̖̱͓̠̭̮̲͙̮̖̖̹̹ͭͯ͑̽̏͗ͥ͂̒̆̓̉ͤͬ̊͞ ̨̢̼̯̦͖̼̞͎̻͈̦͈͉̭ͥͪ̓̂ͭ̓̑͢͜m̷ͮ̄̔̔͆̽҉̶̧̣̘̟̩̺͖͈̫̹͙̺̞̭͕͉͡ͅạ̷̦̘̺̰̤̗̻̹̹̹̓̂̃̇̓͠͞d̸̶̵̘͈͕͍̪̤̺͙̺̜̭̺̲̩̹̲̼͙̉͐ͪ̑͘ͅė̽͌̑͑̑̂ͧ͛ͫ̋̒ͬ҉͝͏̶͚̮͔̤ͅ ̨̻̝̪̜̼̬̺̤̖̦̞̟̖̦̬͈͇͒͗̓̐̈́͒̈́̈́̕͝ả̸͍̥̣̘̖͚̲͇̹̟͖̏͋͗̏ͦͦ͌̈̔̉̎̄̔̑̑̍͢ ̷̡̳̘͙̬͍̼̩̲͂̌͗ͬͩ̍ͬ̏̈̓͐ͬͪ̂̋̚͡ď̶̢̜͙̪͖̼̣͖̼͍̮͂ͮͦ̽̃ͪͥ̐͟ę̘͙̭͆̃̆ͭͪ͐ͣ̓̂ͩ̾̾͐͘̕͞ͅą̶̨͓̬͇̹̔ͨ̏͊̏ͥ̂ͮ̍ͧ͛̊ͯ̐̎̚l̵̞̪̖̳͕̦̞̞̍̑ͨͮ͘͡͡ ̵̻͓̻̱͕̯͔̯̭̪̖̅̑͛͐̑͊̒͂͐ͮw̡ͪ͗́̐̇ͫ̿̔̔̊́͂̚̚̕͟͡͏̩̲̞͕͇̗͈̞̺i̡̔ͭ̂ͤͣͯ̈́́̃ͥ̚͟͝҉̩̤̪͔͇̱̝͔̪͚̬͔͕̖͍̜̝̹t̊̽ͥͩ͆͑͑ͪͧͭ̂̐ͥͦͧ̑̔̚͏̴̝̬͈̝̹̳͈̰̳̦͕̝͉̞̠̬̕͡h̛͎̭̩̙͕̓ͮ̇̀̇͒ͩ̅ͥͭ̉ͪ̎͌̚͘͠ ̮͓̰̺͕̻͓̜̫̼̤̮͚͓̌̔ͦͪ̃̂͛̓ͤ̓̇͌ͫ̓̾ͣͮ͑ͧ͝͝s̰̯̤̼̝̱̪͕͇̺̦ͩ̎͐̀̐̈́͐̐ͯ̅̓̕͞oͤ̋ͭ̓̂͊̊̓̆͐͏̛͍̘̼̙̹̝̞̭͍̯͔͝m̟͓͕̘̟͕̮̱̞̰͓̰̠͔̦̘̙̟ͥͭͤ̊ͧ̈́͡ͅȇ̝͕̟͚̣̯͇͔̙͍̭̙ͫͩ͌̈͋̑ͫ͗̾ͩ̄͗̓͝͠oͭ̆̊ͮ̊̐̋̎ͥ͒̉̂͆ͦ͋̋҉҉҉̵̛̖͎͈͎̼͓͖͚̖͚̞͈̺̻n̢̯̲̣̬̞͉͕̺͎̩̥̳̹̥̈͂ͦͬ̒̿̽ͪ̿͊͌̋͒̐ͩ̀̒͟͠ͅe̷̸̠̤̱̪͍̭̬̯̻̰͛̽̐͊̍̐ͩ̾̌̍̈̅ͧ͞͞ ̨̼̩͇̪͈͔̌̑͊͑͌̎̑̂͑̍ͥͨ́̚͞Į̶̖̫͚͈͓͚͕̟ͧͥ͛͗̉͒͌͒͂ͯͪ͟ͅͅ ̧̡̧̹̩͔͕̦̬̙̤̗̯͖̤̙͖̭͕͉ͣ̽̍̍ͮ̒͒͂́̋̈́̚͢f̶̴̺͖̱̥̜̞̄̑͆̑ͧ̅̅̔̑ͩͮ͛̌̚e̛̒ͬ͂ͥ͂͂̔ͧͧ̓̏̍̐ͭ̿͆͗̚̕͜҉̗̪͔̠̪͙͎̘̰̤̤̩̹l̵̸͉͈̲͓̯̤ͧ͌͐ͬ̔ͮ͒͌̑͂͌͋ͫ̽̚̕t̴͖͓̤͈̪͉̞͎̓ͫ͂̑ͭ̒̊͛̅͆̚͘͜͢ ̧̠̥̟͔̣̥̠͓̰͔̗̇͒̏̎̃̇ͮ̿́ͮͬ͗͢͜c̓̉̆̎ͩ̏ͦ̾ͮ̎̽̓ͩ̒͏̶̨̼͕̘̩̻̥̱̰͝o̸̴̻̦̖͖̼̲ͧ͆̍͌̐ͨͫ̕ͅu͈̹̘̦̰̻̯̤̮͎̻͍̳̣̐͆͋ͫͤ̈̒̎̔ͭ̉ͤ̄͌̓̓̀̆̕͜l͍̜͈̼͕̻͖͉͓̬͈͙̻̓͑ͫ̐͂ͩͦ͒̏͜͡d̶̛͉̘̺͚̹͔͍̪̐̓ͪͥ̑͐ͩͬͯ̋̽͢͞͞ ͇͓̯̭̲͈̖̝̠̝̰͇̙̜͖̄̍͆̈ͪ̍̅̒̒̀̓̒ͧ̿͜͠l̈́ͦ͊͊ͤͩ̿̋ͥ̎̌͠҉̪̘͕̱̜͔̬̜͎͕͉̼̟͕͘͟͡e͓̩͇̠̪̜̣͗̃ͬͪ͛̚͠ṅ̃̆̋̎͋ͯ̒̔͝͏̺̮̳͘ͅd̩̹͚̣̺̻̭̮͈̰̼͚̝̑̈͛ͧ̈ͣͦ̔ͦ̎̓ͧ̉͝ͅͅ ͔̜̱͙̟͆̐̄͆̃̄̇̽̅ͫ͡ṡ͖͚͇̦͔̹̘͍̖̮̦͔̪͈̲̗̰ͯ̎͛ͣ̉ͪ͋̎̒̍̂̓̃̆̾̍͞ͅͅơ̴̷͉̰̳̻ͮ̽͗͒͌̒̃ͥ̅̑͌̉̓ͥ͟͜m̴̡̛͙͕͕͙ͪͣͤ̂̌̏̓̂̍̅͛̊̚͠͡e̸̢̡̲̹̫̘͈̍̍͐ͥͫ̎̇ͭ̇̅ͥ ̷̵̡̛͚̯̼̲̮̗̳̞̘̤̤̣͈ͬͧ̄ͪͥ̀ͪͦ̿̓̐͒̀ͣͪ͐ͣ͗̚h̸͓̦͖̤͂̄ͯ̑͊̂̃͛́́͑̚͟e͎̭̭̝̻̗̟̦̲̞̺̘͔͖̯̓ͫ̔̎͂̊̀̊ͮ̀͆̆̚͟͞ͅͅl̸̜̪̰̜͔͓̮͚̺̯̰̩̦͕͈̰̋̿͆ͨ̋ͧ͌̈́ͩͩ̄̏͗p̴̴̬͚̱͕ͭͩ̐́ͨͦ̏̎͋ͣ͐̍͢͞ ̨̡͍̻̰̭̗̮͉̠̍ͬ̓̏̃͆͋͌̀͐͋ͩ̚i̒̿͗̃͛ͬ̂̎̈̈́ͯ̍̆̾̒̎̚͏̡̝͕͔͙̭͉̮̹̭͓̘̖͉̥̯̫̘͍̣n̴̶͊̿͛ͭ͂ͨͮ͗̄͌̏̂͋̾̏̈́ͪ҉̲̯̝̩̞͔͍̜͎̪̜̝̞͞͞ͅ ̴̸̬̜̣͎̰̺̺̣̩̘͈͍̄͆̎̑̐ͩ͋͐ͩ̍̇̊ͣ͑̌̂ͯ͞͡ţ̶̵̧̞͎͍̬̰̤̰̍͗ͬ̉͒́ͥ̕h̛̰̫͎̜̜͙͓͎̳̣̾̓̈́̆͋̋ͪ̈ä̎ͣͨ̈̌͊̈̇̓̋ͫ̓̚͏̴͍͉̥̟̣͎̲͙̳̪͙̝̕ͅt̴̸̨̯̳̪̘̙̫̭͖̦̋̾́ͯͮ̚͡͠ ̶̂ͩ͐̅̂̊͑͊̐̾͊ͩ̋͛͋̂́҉̨͍̠͖̩͓̞̰̮͉̬͚͍͚̭̣͖̹͕̹͝t̎͑͑̃̍̄͒͑ͧͫ͒̈̎̂͏̣͇͎̗̦͚̗͙̜͘ͅͅi̢̧̛͇̣̠͎̖͙͇̬͉̼̰̗̻͚̯̼̯̣͗ͩ̓̌̾̊ͩ͌͊ͣ͋̄̓ͫ͑ͤ̚͢m̸̢̛͈͕̯̞͚̠̩̟̪͎̥͉̰̳̩̃̎̆̑͛̎ͩ̂̎ͪ̿̎͡e͙̫̬͖̹̞̭̎ͭ̋̓͐ͬ͆͛͟͡ ͆̏ͯ̂̓ͭͧ̅͆̒͂̇̎̍ͫ̾͆̓͏͏̵̲̥͖̦͓̱̤̮̝̤̥̞̱͓͈͎͈̼ơ̭̩̯̠ͤ̈́͋̔f̗͔͔͓̖̯͓̜̙̣̠̣͕͚́̓ͮ̄ͦͣ̿ͮ̓́͛ͩͯ̍̍̊ͬ̽ͭ͜ͅ ̷̳̖̫͓̣̙͖̜̰̖͎͔̱̫̐ͪ͑ͯ̍ͯ̃̂̀̈́̇ͨ͞͠ͅn̵͒͆ͥ͋ͧ̚͏̩̩̺̟͚͎͈͡eͪ͋̑̎ͤͨ̔ͥ̏ͧ̓̓͑ͫ͐̂̅͘͘͏̹͇̰̼̲̭͈͉̦͈̞̼̻͚͚͘e̵͚̖͇̗̺͍̣͓̯̺̖̬̳̬̭͗ͮ͗̒̓ͭ͜͠d̺̲͇͇̝͕̩͉͈͓̯͎͙͉ͯ̔̂͂͋͘͢͜͝.̸̧̛͉͔̙̻̬͐͊̎̏ͫͮ̍͡

 

̡̅͌͆̉̒͑̇ͪ͗̓͑̐̏̈́͏͈͔̲̞̪̤͕̦̭̦̜͡͡Ḯ͖͓̳̻̠͈̺͔̥̖̺̑͌̋̑ͪ͆̊ͪͩ͒̋́͒͊̿́̊͘̕͝t̸̵̪̜͚̄̓̋̚ ̤̯͖̞̗͙͐ͪ̂͊̍ͪ̏͒͗̂͗̓͌̾ͧ̚͝d̩͈̖ͩ̂ͮ̾ͭ̐͌̊̅̐͋̀̒͘͞͝ͅi̢̩̭͚̝͊ͩ̈̓̒̎ͪͣ́ͣ̿̍̏̐̒͂̇̓͝d̨̠̮̟̲̤̼͚̻ͥͤ̒͊ͫ̎̒ͮͬ̅̀̔ͅ ̎ͧͩ̌̀͒ͬͣ͂̇ͩ̏ͥ͋̏̆ͭ҉̸̰̤̞̞̥̘̻͚͙̰̱̫̱̟n̷͈̠̳̤̣͉̮̝͖̞̲͔̟͓͌̔̌ͬ̅̅̎̎͂͐ͮ͟ͅơ̶̵͈͇͓͖̳̘͍̝̱̝̩͚͍̣̠̼̘ͭͤ͆͛̏̃̍̓̈ͭ͊͗̚͘͢ţ̡͎̦̫͉̣̩͔̮̩͉̘̪̼̮̻̬ͧ̍̏̔̋̊̐͐̇ͭ̾̅͜͝ ͕̣̼̗̳͂̇͆͋ͭ͆̍̌ͯ̓́̇ͮ͛͜ȩ̵̛̹̩̬̫͍͚͚̙̦͌ͣͦ̈́̌̇̋͛̊̄ͥn̸̴̺̲̻̤̫̖̠̜͍͔̓͌ͬ̂̋͑̍͛̽̿̓ͮͯ̚͘͜d̛͎̹̹̠̖̝͕͙͎͈̞̞̰͓̹̳͙̍ͮͤ̐͛̅͊͆̈́̓̉͐̚̚͟ ̷̨̛̗̹̟̫̯̻̲̗̳̹̜̃̊̃͌̾ͣ̎̂͆̃̽̓͞͠w̴̡̨̤̙̪̩ͪ̂ͣ̔ͬͥ͗ͦ̉̓̋̒̈́̚ȩ̝̖͖̯͎̱̫͔͙̝̙̜̳͓̭̼̖ͫͫ̊̈́̄̑̋͗͆ͨ̓͡l̷̀̾ͤͥ͋ͧ̿̃̊ͯͣ̂ͧ̃ͭ͢͏̺͉͉̲̙͎̯͈̥̘̯͔̙̠ͅl͕̫̦̫͉̟̩͖̥̰͔̱͑ͬ̈ͣ͋͐ͭͫ̐̾͟͝,̸̖͎̪͎̮̬̘̖̺̦͉̱̿̽̑͐ͫ̄ͮ͐͌ͪ̚͡͡ ̧̡̊͛ͪ̍͛͋̓̓͏̷̯̥͇͇͔͚̜̤̹͉̯̞͟ͅw̵̛̺̘̟͇̜̰̠͇̙̙̳̰̘̣̳̩ͨ̿͊͆̂̍ͥ̄̊ͅh̵̋ͥͧ̑̈́ͨ́̚͏̶̸̙̣̱̮̝̮̬͚͍̗͖̹̰͓͝ͅì̴̶̭̣̪͓̭͔̈͂̈͜͞͠ċ̢̛͍̤̳͍̩͖̪̫̻͈̻̦̟̱̝͚̘̻̎ͨ̋̎̉ͪ̍͆͊̐ͅh̷̸͓̣͈̣̦͇̫ͧ̏ͥ͗̋̆ ̵̟͎͉͙̽̾̅̋ͤ̍͘͠ͅo̵͎͚͕̹̦̝̯͎͓̦͉̻̜͕͎̬͚͚̾̍̔̃̄́͛ͫ̂̐̿̃ͫ͘͡n̸̓̐̍ͩ͐͑͗̄͌ͨͩ͢͏͖̹̤̣̼̻͖̥̪͍̥l̈̓ͮ̔ͫͪͭͫ̃ͬ͛ͬ̈̍̚̚͏̹̺͕̳̫͍̝͘ÿ̵̧́ͣ̂ͪͥ̆̇͂҉̖̺̺̰̬͔͔̹̩͎̳͈̺̪̹̜͓̘ ̵̵̶͚̪̪̠̩̤̝̊̓̿͌ͣ͢s̛͓̩̱̯̼̳̖͙͚̅ͩͤͥͦͨͩͤ̑̓̈́̀̚͞ė̢̱̙̼͓̰̹̒͌̊̓̒̅͐ͪ̐ͩ̚͢͟͢͡r̵̢̨͖̻̙͇͖̺̮̩̼̦̞͈̠̬̠͔͎̯̂̎̔ͭ̎ͫ̓ͧ͆̍̂̔̓̿̚v̧̻͈̣͈̮͐̆̿͌ͫ̌̀̈͝ę̨̨̱̼͔̳̳͖̇̈ͮ̋͗̔̍̽̽ͥͯ̓̔́d̅ͤ̑ͭ̽̉ͤ̓͒̎̚҉̴̧̞̦͍͈̖̥̯̥̗̹̞̘͉̣͍̱ ͈̹̗̺̱̥̜͈̐̒̊͆͊ͦ̇̒̌́͟͢t̴ͨ̌̎ͭͮ̏ͯ̄͆̆̿ͪ̓̐ͪ̊̚͏̲͖͍̝̯͞ȯ̷̢̡͎̦͓̫̹̝̰͈̩̹̟̫̭̫̹̜̱̫̃̂͗ͤ̾̐ͮͩͅ ̸̘̥̜͖̩̙̙͚̪͓̯̮̰̒̓̒ͪ͛̄ͤͅa̡̔̾̋̌ͥ̆̄ͥͧͨͤͭͭͦ̎̉̚̕͢҉̬̠̠͍̗͉̗̙̲̪͉̳̪̱͚͕l̢̮͖̱̩͓̫̼̙̂̿̈̇̎͛i̸̢̬͖̲̲͖̱͉̦͖̩̠̘̙͌ͣ́̅ͥ͐ͯ̓ͮ́̍̔͘͢͠e͇̳̬͈̙͔̼̠̲̖̤̗͋ͧ͌̉͂̅̽̓ͥ̓ͥͅn͔͚̬̝̞̄̈ͮ̈̋̍̑͑ͬ͆͊̈́͊ͫͯ̓ͯ͢͢a̸̛̰͓̜̹͇̻͉̣̹̼̣̦͔͍̲̗̐́ͤ̓̇͊̚͠ͅt̸̻͕̮͉̭͓̟̤͉̺̍͋ͧ̓̃̍͗̐̐ͫ̀̃̾̚ͅe̢̡̻͔̟͉̲ͫͦ̃̾ͤͧ̈̋̅͘͢͢ ̡̧͆̂̏̇̑ͭ̊̅̒ͮͣ҉̶̫͖͎͔̭̥̲̫m̨̨̛̖̭̟̥̌̄̍͒͢ȩ̂̓ͦ͊̇́̚͏̧̲̹̼̬̘̹̘͝ ̢̳̻͓̯̰̼̳̟̫̟̮̉̾̔̆̋̋ͦͯ̾̽ͦ̅ͯ̈́͜͟͢͞ͅͅf̷̧͕̲͉̩̬̜̯̹̱̮͖̲̞͕̺͚̲͊̊ͭ̏͊̓͆̎͝ͅṳ̸̡̞̗͚̻̥̻͚̬̰̠̝͓̙̦̝͎ͭ̋̌̅ͨ͐͆̊̊͢͡ͅͅr̷̘̻̝͈̘̠̫̤͓͚̱̟̝̠ͣ̾̆̾̃͜͝͡ț̴̷̛̗͉̘̘̺͇̿̆ͯ͒̈h̶̛̝̥̪̩͙̠͎͙̻̘̼̳̘͎ͤ̏͐̾ͯ̾͊ͦ̈́̎ͧ̋ͤ͒̇͋ͫͩ͢͞ę̭̰̻̺̺͎̎ͦͮ̾̒ͩ͠͡r̨̨̗̦̩͈͈͎̳͍̉ͩ̑̂̚ ̤̪̭̺̲͎̙̼̭̪̫̼̪̺̈́̋ͪ̐̾̿̐ͯ̀ͣ̿̄ͮ̀ͫ̉̎͟͝ͅf̴̡̞̩͚̫̫̺̮̳̯̗̖͔̩̯̬̫̱̼̒ͤ̑̓ͭ͌̉̅̔͡ͅr̐̎̄͐̉͌͋͊̈͟͟͡͏̰͉̤͓̥̮͍o̸̧̰̺͓̬͕͚̹͇̺̲̪̰̭̱̮̗̳͒̅ͪ̅ͅm̵̢̨̺͇̹̻̣͔̜̪̹ͥͧ͐̓͊͟͞ ̨̡̲̮̳̩͉̥͚̠͇̗̦̙̘̄͒̓͂̄ͮ̏̅̄̀̑̀͢͡͠ȩ̡̛̠͍̩̞̟̣͔̥̈́ͩ̂́̅̆͒ͣͣ̂̓͂̕x̵̧̢̾̂͂̽ͮ̑͏͎̥̦̞̥͎̮͉̻̭̹̗͉̪̙̩̥͎t̨̛̜͍͓̩͙̦̥͇͉͚̠̟̖̤̺̗̝͌͂ͬͨ̀r̴̡̤̯̮̝̼̺̠͖̝̞͚̹͙͙̝̥̟̹̎ͨ̈́̇͑̇͌́ͤ͛̓͠͡ͅa̸̶̛̰̣͍͉ͧ̔̈̉̉̅͡p͆̏͌͛͒̄̓̀ͭͭ͝͏͚͎̺̱͚ͅl̡͕̠̩̰͉͎͓̹͕̯̙͓̘͕͎̩̖̫͛̀ͪͤ̕͝ͅa̸̵̹̳͍̻̣̟͇̰͔̪̙̙̞̰̜̪̰ͦ̋̉̄ͫͤ̈̎ͩ͌̄͘͟ͅͅn̷̷̡͈̲̥̝ͪ̒̄͋̀̾̆ͯͧ̇a̳͓̜̬͇̞̙̖̭̣̦͌͐ͨ͆̈́̏͌ͩ̅̓͆́̇̾ͦ̀̚͟r̷̡̨͙̹̼̫̳̲̃͑̎̇͐́̂̃̾ͮ͑ͣͦ̚̚̕͠ ̵̷̡̲͙̥̝̖͈͈̗͕̬̺̟̹̺̦̯̱ͯ̍ͬ͑ͦ̑͋̔ͤ̍͂̿͘͢ä̰̣̮̣̳́̉̆̓̿ͨ̋ͦ̊̋̔̾̊̃͘͞i̢͇͙͎̬̮̜͕̩̫̹͚̼̼ͧ͊ͨ̍̒ͧ̊͆͊̇ͮ͡͞ͅͅd̨̨͖̯̳͇̥̪ͭ̇ͨ͗ͨ̐͆͟͟ ̇ͦͬ̆͐̽̾̀͌͒̕͏͚͖̪͖̙̙̯̻͉̼͇͓̮͞ͅͅâ̛̛̘̠͉̪͇͔͕͊͑ͤͦ̀ͮͦͧ̽̕͟ṇ̡̺̺́́ͮ̀ͨ͐̽̂͐̑̿͆͢ͅd̶̶̦͈̠̭̠̰͇̥̦̙̠̰̑̇̌͊ͥͥ̏ͣ́ͥ̀͐͌̓͂ͥ͜͝͞ ̶̢̳̖̙͔̜̖̤͗̾̉̊͒ͅţ̎͗ͩ̽̅̓̎̔̾̑̍̔ͨͩ̌ͣ͠͏̨͖̞͇͙̪̜͈͈̳̟̥̠͍̩͍͕̗̤͓h̷̨͖̖̠͈̪͕͙̑̒͐̑̐ͤͩͥͫ̾̃̾̕͜ë̴͕͙̦̘̩̫̑ͯ̀̂͟͢ͅ ̴̸̨̛̞̜̯̠̩̭̝̼͙͙͓̟̙̙̼̖͍̜̻̃͋́̅̀̍͊ͯ͠č̻̭̹̲̓̾ͥ̋ͪ̒͜͝͡ǫ̵̴̶̟̤͉̮ͧͮ͆̇ͤ͠n̴̯̗̮͑́̓̀̓̿̅ͧ̃́͞ͅņ̛̙̰͕̺̪̱͔͙̖͕̣̘̠̾͌́͋͋̃ȩ̴̬͓͓̫͉̩̘̥͓̟̺̺͇̣͓̙ͤͨ̃̔ͥͦ̒̇͡ç̯̮̞̳͓̎̐̅́̅̿͂̈̌ͭ͜͜͜ţ̸̨̛̝͔͙̗̥̫̮̖̱̥̞̣̓̏͋ͣ̋ͬ͂̾ͭ̓̒͒̅ͪ̄ͣͣe̡̠̭̠͈ͨ͂̍̾ͯ̀ͦ͂ͪ̒̇̀̈ͭ̒̈̃͘d̵̶̸̢̠̪̘̖̻͈͚̰̤̳͓̺͖̟̄ͦ̈ͫ̍ͪ͊̔͑̽̚ͅ ͮͬ̍̇̓ͩ̒̍͌ͨ̒͐ͭ̿̂̀͜͏̧̛҉̯̝̳̠̰͇̘ͅc̐ͤ̆̉̿̑̉̓͋̌̆̈́ͪ͛ͥͩ̚̚̚͏̵̬̟̤̠͜͟͡i̷̛̳̭̣͈͕͕̟͍̝͈̥̭ͥͨ̾̌̊ͥͨ̓̅̈́͒̃ͯ̓ͮ͝ŗ̴̡̛̪͖͙̠̗͇͓̺͍̎ͦͩͪͧ̐͊ͭ̆̽ͬͩͣ̽ͅc̴̷̸̨̦͚̥̈́̍̀ͩ͐̈́͐ͩͣ̾͞ḽ̠͉̪̮̲̱̃ͫͩ̓̇̋͂͌͌̔ͬ͂͞e̷̳̦̠̙̠̦͌͛̆͂̑̉̓ͯ̇͂͒ͮ̎ͪ͌ͦ̉͆͝s̡̮̼̣͖̲̰̼̞͕͉̻̠̫̼̥͒̊̈̄ͬͪͭ̈́̉ͅ.̻̭̙̟͓̦̫̻̲̪͚͕̦ͬͣ͑ͧ͒̄̃͆̏͛̚̚͜ ͚̹͚̙̥̜͈͈͚̹̖̩͉͚̮͛̆̃̂̑ͨ̅͂ͤ̇̾̏̿ͤͦͣͭ̕I̔̀͌̇̋̇̏̂͛̇ͤ̎̽̒̏ͪ͂͗͠͏͉̹͔̜͎̗̲͙̪̖͍͈͙ ̧̢̮͙̪̠̦̤̳ͫ̓ͮ̉ͯͬ̀ͭ̉͛̒͜͞l̷̷̸̴͖̟̻̣͇͇̖̘̙̫ͨ́ͨ͒ͭ̑͛̎ͩ̌ͣͮo̢̡ͥͨ͋̎̆҉̱̞̹̮͚̯̫͖̙̩̼͙̰͢͞ͅṣ̵̵̛̥̻̫̳̖̞̜̦̰ͯ͛ͣͣ͢t̵̢̹̫̲̖̞̣̬͔̗̠̹̳͇̉̍͂ͣͪ̌ͧ̾͛͐ͯ̉͒̽ͬ̓ͬͦ̈́͝ ̴̸̗͈̮̱̥̞͍͔̩̰͚̙̮͉̣̼̿ͨͪͦ̊ͤ̊̊ͯ͗̅͋̈́̅͑̄͟͟ͅmͨͯ̔̚͏̹̼̟̮̣̫̳̳͓̬͇̗̖̕͜͜ͅͅy̨̅ͯ̽̌̇͊̓̒̍̈͏͍͉̘̝̺̭̟s̈̅̎ͯͯ͐̆̅ͤͫͭ̋ͥ̌̿ͮ͛̽͝͏̣̹̹͇͉̜̩̙̺̜̫͖̰͓̲ͅͅe̢͈̜̻͇̤̠̝̝̳͊̐̔̏̍͆̒ͬ̏ͦ̆̂̉͛͛̚̚͘l̨̪̮͎͎͖̪͑̅̍ͣ̈̓ͨͭ̅͘f̴̧͓̟̗̪̤̰̩̲͉̟̪̠̦̍ͥ͂̇͒̃̌͂ͫ͑ͦ̚͘̕͘,̢̨̦̟̞͔̰͓̬̝̦̥͊̏̽̒͂ͬ͗ͥ̅ͨ̔́̍ͥͮͅ ̢̹̻̳̗̦͕̪̟̮̈́͛͒̈ͫͣ͆̈̋̀̄͂ͨ̂̄̆̊͢a̶̧̭̟̬̭̥̥͍̖͖̺ͭ̽̿̈́ͣ͐̏̿͌́͐̈́ͬͥ͠͝n͕̻͚͓̻͇͔͕͙̮̬͕̲̻̞̰͎ͤͫ̄̊͞͠͡͝ͅd̥̪͎̪͓̬͔̮̘͕̘̝͖̅͂͆ͫ̕̕͘͜ ̡͇͚̞̭̪͔̝̲͇̹̩͇͋͒̉ͥ́̏̋̉̒͗̌̍̅̾̆̽ͥͣ̚͡͝n̛̲̦̫̖̩̯̪̦̳̣͙̪̣͎̈́̆̆̾̿o̫̲̫̙̜͖̫̯̖͖̪̼͕͉͈̟͉̥͐́̋̃̕̕w̵̜̤̼̺̰̤̻ͩ̿͑ͫͪ̒̓͒ͧͩ͗͊͑͌̐͂̿ ̷̴̹̲͔̪͈̻̠͍̮̯̬͈̝̘̺̝͛́͌͗̀̚͢I̗̪͉̞͍̮͉̣͇̬̗͕͉̱͖̘͗̊̂ͪ̒̓̓ͨͨ̆̿̇͜͠ ̸̞͈̭͖͉̭̣̫̜̯̻̹̠̦͇̱̈́́̉̆̈́ͨ̈́̅͗̇̅͜ͅh̛̺̫̣̭̼̼̦̟͍̤̦͚̯͛ͤͥ͛̾̓̊̌ͦ̈̋̈́̔͗̑̚͟ͅͅą̢̬̪̖̥̫̼͋̋̂ͪ̀̑̄͒̐̋̌̏͊͝v̷̡̧͎͉̪͖̭̜̖̩̥̞͚̗̰̟̰̌̓́̐̎̆ͩ͆̌̓ͫe̢̖̻͇̪͙̭̯͎͔̳͖͎ͭ̈́̐̏̂͠ͅ ̧̣̲̠̭̼̩̟͚̠͙̻͈̥̞ͦ̿ͫ̄̃ͯ̈́̇̄͊̌ͣ͞t̀̽̔̿̏́̿́̎̾̒̄̄ͮ̋̈̏̚̚҉̵̣͈̻̱͍̕͟o̷͉͕͎̫͙̹̖̱̺̙̹͚̼̥̲̤͓̿̇̓ͯ̄̂̆͊̿̏͑ͭ̐ͮ̀͟͢͠ ̶ͫͤ͛ͭ̎ͬ̋͞҉̲̜̞̞̰̩̦̻̹̹͎̖͈̥̪͉f͆̅ͧ͂ͯ͂̔̈́̊͋̅̄ͧ̎̋̽ͥ̂͝͏̯̰̼̜̺͔͝͝i̧̱̘͓͈̘̯̖̫̞̦͐̏̐̇̐ͣ̿ͫ̄̀̒̿͞͝ň̷̷̫̞̰͕̑͐ͤ͠͞ḑ̡̗̳͍͙͎͚̺̞͙̂̂͒́̈̒̊͒͋̈ͣ ̶̦̹̰͈͔̄̑̿ͥ̋̅͑ͩ̉ͧͦ̋̐͂̽̒́̚͡m̴̢͓͎̳̻̣̳͍̬̽̽ͭͮͤ̔ͨ͋̓̈ͬ͡ͅy̛̛̳͖̫͖̹̹̺̗͙͙̠̒͛̓̇͐̉̋ͪ͐͛̋͝s̸̵͓̰͍͕̹̝̩͔̙͖͎̼̤̳̦̮̓ͬ̾̒̿̿̈ͤ̐̋̐ͦ͒ͅẻ̔ͤ̍ͬ̂ͬͯ̓̔̃̀ͣͯ͜҉̴̠̤͕̝̘̯͚̰ļ̺͙̼͙͙͖̼͇̖̺̤͇̜͎̳͑͐̾̆͂ͤ̽ͭ͊ͯ̀͘͠ḟ̇́ͬ͆̚͘͜͠҉̰̥̘͍͍̗̦͈̦͔̰̯̤͕̪̞ͅ ̮̗̳͓̰̲̟̳͓̮̤ͯ̓͑͐ͫ̇ͤ̐ͯ͟ͅąͪ͛ͪ͌̈̚͏̥̭̟̫̭̝̬̗̻̭̹̲ļ̖̝̝̼̪̲̜̪̳̼̭̗̦̗͇͕̝̝̪̀ͩ̅̈ͮͨ͊̐̅ͥ̽̽͐͗̈́̍ͬ̈ͩḽ̵̶̶̯̭͓͙͈͙̘̼̺̺͔͎̮̣̫̪͖̺̿͗͋͆̀ͧ͒͛̚͡ ̵̢̝̼̲͍̘̬͇̱̰̯̹̹͚̾̽̍̋͋́ͬ̔̂̇̐̆ͩ́̚͟͡͞ͅo̽͆̃͒́̓̈̎̏̐ͤ͆҉̶̰̙̖̬̠̜̺̤̳̳̪̞̯̙̤̬͚̣ͅv̶͑̍̽̊ͣ̎͂ͪ͛ͦͩ̈́̅̚͏̘͔̩͔̞͕̲̳͎̕͜͟ę̸͙͍͕͕͙̅̐̋͛̕r̡̠̦͖ͨͬ̂͊́̕̕͜ͅ ̸̝̘͈͖̤̰̤̞͕̲̻̲̅̒̏̋̎͢ã̴̘͓̤̿̈́ͤ̄͆̍͂̐͌̂ͩͭ͛̎g̷̯̫̘̤̠͓̫̞̫͕̟̞̼̝̩͚̭ͥ̿ͬͤ̄͐ͭ͆̎̾̋͗ͫ̔a̢̮͍̝̰̝̮̩̜̗͎̞͖̓̓͐i̧̗̦͇̠͉͎̪̲̫̻̠̤̤̹͚̹̇͐ͩͫ̂̿ͬ͞n͊̅̌͗̔ͯ̽͂͗̎ͭ̑̏͋ͧ̎͏̩̩̳̘̘͇̳̜͈̹̰ͅͅ.̡̱͔̘͔̞͓̻̫̗͔͈͇̜̖͔̥͙͆̾̈́ͤ

 

 

Which is why I began studying ways to find what the gods have left behind, following research attempts long in the making that scholars and historians affectionately call the _Trail of Trials_ , looking for the missing piece that could perhaps explain why our existence is bound to gods’ whims after all this time.

Legend has it that all those involved, even in small part, in the creation of the world have left something for us to find before leaving us to our devices. Some of these things might be beneficial, helpful even, while others are in some ways a sort of sick joke, meant to entertain its creator from where they sit in the outer planes. Aside from the purpose or motive behind what remains of them, which is largely unknown, these small, impossible seeds have guided the faithful priest, the merciless warrior, and the worshipper by happenstance alike since time immemorial.

The disposition of those making these “ _Remains_ ” is said to have largely affected what they left behind. Anything from abstract boons, curses, powers, arcane capabilities and even physical, ever-powerful objects are said to lie among us, waiting to be unearthed, discovered, and put to good use.

Following my personal reasoning, I decided to delve into stories of an artefact known crudely as _Skullruin_ , or Screamsever or the Silver Scythe. Accounts have described this legendary object as a short sword or long, double-edged dagger, at times black or silver in colour. Flowery tales of this deathly instrument have it made from polished platinum, inscribed with arcane runes and with a jewelled hilt, encrusted in blood-red, scarlet and onyx-hued stones in the shape of teardrops. The only consistent descriptor for this blade of old is, perhaps, “vorpal”. Master blacksmiths assured me that few swords and weapons of this kind exist in the entire world as of now, its method of inception nearly lost to the minds of enchanters who have long gone mad and absconded from the earth to different planes, different worlds, more attuned to their ramblings.

Tales of a blade capable of severing one’s head in a single swipe are frightful enough, but the real masterwork infused in Skullruin is yet to be uncovered. Many have researched this dagger, some have concocted theories. Fewer still have pinpointed a possible location for this incredibly dangerous object.

Believed to be a Remain from an evil god, protector of assassins, murderers and marauders, the blade known as Skullruin was most likely used by early tribes and cults as a tool, implemented in gruesome rituals where the victim’s head was severed with ease, leaving the sacrifice to wail and scream in pain and horror for long minutes before they finally expired on the altar. Screamsever was said to grant incredible powers to its wielder, allowing them to meld with the shadows, traversing the world like a terrible phantom capable of cutting down anyone or anything on their path. But most importantly, legends say that whoever had the honour to hold this dagger also had to pay a hefty price for the privilege. Said to allow access to a far-removed and corrupted realm, where souls are tortured and harvested, where foolish wanderers are kept as cattle, Skullruin requires its wielder to relinquish their own selves to the Patron who so ingeniously created such a terrible tool of destruction. Once the deal was sealed, the wielder of the Silver Scythe would be able to walk the land unnoticed, free to strike the killing blow – the only blow – at the most opportune time, and then disappear again into the night.

It’s not clear how the wielder would do so, if there’s a secondary ritual involved in the attainment of Skullruin’s full power, if the person reaping the boon and curse of this blade would perhaps have to commune with this evil entity itself or, worse yet, if one had to forfeit their soul in exchange for the permission to even use such an artefact.

What is certain, is that using something like Skullruin would turn anyone holding the dagger to darker deeds, and after following through with whatever ritual the blade demands, little would be left of one’s soul by the end of it.

 

 

So, obviously, I̷̵̡̼̱͎͚̦̠͙̜͈̲̦̪̹̻̅ͬ̈ͫ̈̓̀̐ͭ̂̋ͥ͋̽̉̍̚ ̛͉̫͈̦̥͔̞͛̅͐̂͌̑ͥ̃̿̐ͬ̄ͮ͑ͣ̾̀̄h̴̏͋̅̓͋͒ͩ͊̅̏͊ͤ̾͢҉̼̥͙̳͕̖͎͖̰̺̗̝͉̦̝͞͠ͅͅȃ̢̡̠̼̖̻̠̝̮̼̳͖̟͕̯͚ͥͦ͊̕͢d̻̝̝̤̮͔͔̝̻̗̲̼̪̈́̾ͥ̊͋ͩͤͪͧ̐̉̄̽ͧ̔ͣ̚͟͢ ̢̹̰͈̲̦̼͎͚͓̟̠̠͔̗̻̳̍͊̃̎ͫ̈́ͯ́͜͜t̶ͮ̌̓ͮ̓̀ͤ̔̋́ͧͫ͏̧̗̬̘̲̯͇͖̝͟ǒ̢͖̬̬̩̝̼̪̞̣ͥͫ͛̉̅̈́͒̃ͣ̔͡ ̷̑̏͊ͪ̏̔ͨͭ̒͋̊͐͏̰͈̭̘̪̙i̶̢̤̦̝̮̮̼̞̪̞͇̻̰̱̻̳̭͔̜̍̋̈́̐̂͂ͦ̃̀͊̚n̮̬̳͎̟͎̦̼̥͚̝̳̫̘̘͕̻̗̈ͪͧ͐͐͒͋ͯ͒ͩ̂̇̈́ͮ̓́̆͘͘͝͝v̸̸̖̖̠̪͕̺̜̜͇̯̘̤̻̄ͩ̈́̽̐ͩ͂͑̚͜͠ͅẽ̡̨̠͖̜͉̬̟͊ͬ̃̒̊͋̌̚͢͞͞ͅs̮̥͖̦̫̝ͮͮͮ͂̕͠ţ̨͉͖̠̘̰̤͚̞̥̠̖͕͔͓͖̲̦ͧ̾̀̔̌̇ͯ̎ͭͣ̓̚i̶͆ͣ͑ͧͪ͐̒̅ͩ̓͛͟͏̬̠̦̜̩̦̘̝̟̪͔̥g̵̛̈̿͌̽̅ͣͦ͂̀̓͠҉̙̫̭̙̤̖̙͇͓̘̤̙̝̻̱̩̯a̶̯̝̭͈̽ͬ̂̒ͪ̇ͩ́͊͊̾ͥ̒̓ͤ̕͟t̸̵̡̫͉̲̳͍̪̘͕̗̝̺̳͉̟͍ͮ̉̂̏̾ͦ͊̐e̢̧̪̻͇̹̲ͣ͐̽̃̍̆͠.̱̯̲̮͇̥̥̪̯͉͚͓̦̻͉ͥͩ͌͒̿̿̈ͮ̄ͫ̓͘͜͟ ̢̲̞̦͔̗͕͇̋̆ͬͭͥ̌̿ͬͦ̋̔͛͊T̸̨͖̫͍̼̳͐͂̇ͥ̕ā̋͋ͥ͊̆̈́̎̽̑̿̐ͭ͛͛̓ͩ͋͒͏̨̛̰͎̼̺̣̼͉̯̰̹̯̠͓̤̘̗̜̦ḽ̙̤̞̥͉̳͕̣̬̭͍̣͕̀̌̔ͨͥ̆ͦ͑͘͜͡ę̧̗̘̱̟̰̰̥̮̪̯͐̽͋̾ͤ̔ͬͣ̋͗ͯ̚̚͘͜͡ͅs̴̿̍͒͊ͧ̐͏̬̬͚̫̱̼͔̖ ̴̫̩̘̹̜͇̠̖̮̞̫̳ͦͨ́̎͋̏͗͛̀͟o̽̆́̀̐͛ͤ́̐̒́͗̈́ͭ̿̍͜҉̨̜͈̹̰̫̬̹͎͉̗̜͍͕̫͓̗̮̖f̧̙̳̬͉̖͈͍͈̦͎̰̦̮̜̌́ͯ̅̒̓͠ ̵̢̛͓̮̪̦̩ͭ͆ͣ͆̏ͤ̇ͫͫͨͥͣ̒͒ͯͬ͘a̢͖̠̬̝͉͉̘̟̟͊̔̀̋͂n̵̷̢̝̤̳̣͌͌ͫ̔̿̀̅̈́ͧͦ ̸̮͓̤̯̺͕̰̰̜͕̦̭́ͨ̇ͦ̅́̉̍͝e̸̶̢̹͇̖͈̦͚̺͕̟̙̞̣͕̙̯̜̠̥͂ͣ͌ͩ̓̾ͤ̔̐ͭͤͮͬ̀̐ͅxͩͤͨͩ̃͑͑ͮ̓҉̭̭͓̼͘͞ͅc̟͎̙͉̹̖̳̰̫̺͇̘͈̜̙͒́̑̃̋ͤͦ̅̾̇̔̇ͤ͆̽̇ͫ͟͝ͅͅhͪ͊͗͂ͩͨ̏̿̈͝͏̗̮͉̫̼̳̰͇̳͖͍̘̥̳͕͖̥͍ą̸̷̞͇̰͍̤̜̎̏̾͗ͭ̈̌̿̿ͦ̕ņ̛̛̯̼̞̲̳͖̻͕̺̻̜̙̥̯̝͒ͩ͒ͨͤ̓ͥ̾g̴̵̷̨̩̥͕̯͔̪̝̺͎̭̺͚̭̗̟̣̞̬ͨͭ̐̅͆ͦ̉̎͆͌̋͐͛̃͛͟ȩ̸͙̘͚͖̟͖͚̦̬̫̗͈̮͉͊͂̉̋̋́̓̓͆̊̾̀̇̊͞ ̡̟̺̼͔͓̣͕͉̤̘̺̜͖̣͉̟͋͐ͭͩͣͭ̉̑̈̄̚̕ỏ̴̋̽͂͛͊̽̿̿ͥ͗̉̅̇ͫ͟͏͏̳̭̪͕͙̥f̶̻͓͔͈̠̺̯͇̜̳̲ͭͭ̒ͭͤ̈ͭ̄ͧ̄̃͒̆͟ ̴̷̶̳͇̜͈͇͚̗̞̭̝̤̺̣̙̺̝̥̿͑̐̔͂ͪͨͮ̾̍́̈̋̚͞ͅì̛̛͙̖̫͈̾̎ͤ̋͛̓ͥͬ̑̽̅͛ͮͬ̇͒͊̆ͅd̨̨̯̖̮̰̭̬̙̙͈͓͎̫̹͙̣͗̔ͩ̾ͧ̑ͩ̓̇̈̕͟e̵̯̬͎̩͈̩̠̮͈̜̲͇͖͊̓ͬ̎ͮ̀̑̆n̡͓̖̱̂ͨ̍ͫ̿ͥͬͨͦ͊͂͛̏̂͆̌͑͠ţ̷̤͇̻̞̮̹̣͇̳͕̪̼̾̽̽̉͒ͩ̿iͭ͆̇̐̈́̊ͦ͐͊ͥ̇͗ͦ̌̿́ͩ̓̚҉͙̝̯̣̬ͅtͫͮͭͩ̏̓̊̀͗͋͋̾̒͛ͭ͞҉͘͏͖̦͇̲ỳ̢ͪ͗̀̾ͨͧ͒̈ͫ̊̽͗ͯ̑҉̘̞͕͙͕̦̪̗̮̗̮̰̝̜͙̖̮͞͞ͅ,̸̼̱̹͎̲̮͕̜̫͙̻͇̩͉̬̰͇ͩͨͦ̋̈̆͌̾͊ͦ̆̒ͨ̈͝͝͝ ̸̶͎̯̼̠̩͚̳̺̱̠̖͖̞̹̺̭̩̍ͩ͗ͣ͌͛͑͋͗͞w̷̧̺̤̹͙̼̰ͮͩ̈̈́ͯͤ͌̒͛̅̎̂͞͠ĥ̢̄̃ͭͫ͌͐̊ͧͭ̑̔͛ͧ͏̧͔͉͙̫͇̩̙̫̙͚̳̟͕i̎̋̎̓ͮ͊̌ͯ͑ͪ̔ͧ̾̐ͤ͊͌̑ͦ҉̦̜̼̦̜̭͜͠c̻͚̯̺̫̰͖͈̺̙̜͌̉̾̄ͯͪ͡h̛ͣ́̾͌ͦͯ̓̈́̉̐̋ͮ̆͋́ͯ͢͢҉̰̖̺̩̫̠ ̵̴̗̺̟̳̮̬̠͉̖̜̣̦̰̰͖̹͑ͤ̓͗ͩ̐̽̎ͭ̈́͛̔̒͡e̵̴̫̣̰̹͙̰̹̦̰͍͔̱͕̼͙͇ͦ̐ͪ̉ͮͫͫ̋̏̊̚̚̕͠n̴̢̧͎̩͚̤̞̦̞̙͕̰͚̮̑͗͑͒ͯ̀ͩ̔ͫ̓ͦ̚͡ͅa̙̜̣̼̫͔͓̺̬͖̘͈̭̮͚̗̘̣̒͒ͮͯͬ̀̐ͧ́̎̒̇̇̃ͭ̉͑͟͠ͅb̴̛̖̤̺̱̣͇͎̱̟̪͓̒̅̇ͪ͋̊̂ͮͥ̚lͬ̄̇͐͌̈ͮͩͭͤ͏̢̭̺̹͉̦͈̯͚̰͍̞̠͢͢ë̛́͆ͮͥ̓̈̀ͮ҉̪̻̤̘͉̺̘͍̗̗̝̫͟d̡͓͔͔͉͓̘́ͨͯͩ̈͐̊̓͂͒͠ ̵̧̥͕̖̝̤̝̱̬̺̖̹͍̖̤͑̀͗̏͌͠ͅS̨̼̠̹̻̩̫̼̰͗̈́͐ͬ͞k̸̵̼̯̞̦̝̮͇̤̰̻̤̟ͫ̌̊ͧ̄͆̇̆̚͡ȕ̶̵̡̨̝̱̝͚̘̩̓ͣ̊͐͗̂̏̌ͫ̕l̵͕̩͍̹̱͌̑̏̈̄̎̓̾̿̎ͧ͆̽͘ͅl̵̵̙̯̞̬̹͇̩͖͇̠ͩ͛͂͑̿ͭ̋̚̕͝͞rͤͤ̋̚͘͏͏̨̗̻̥͙̬ǘ͚̩͔̘̻͆ͮͫ̅̀̈̔ͮ͆ͦ͒͌̍̌ͩ̅̎̉̕͡͡i͙̘̠̥̯̫̣͐̃͗̚͞n̨̛̲̩̩̘̩̯̘̮͚̳̰̗͓̻͕͇̗ͩ͗ͣ͊̈́̄͆̚ͅ'̨̮̗͎͈̘̭͎̟͐ͫ̄̄ͯͤͦ̐̇̌̊̀̐ͩ̚̕͞͞͞s̵̱̺͕̼͓͈̟̳ͩ̈̋̅ͮͣͤ͒͂̔̓ͭͧ̀͑̕ ̡͕̞͍̗̣͖͔͎͚̺̝̈́̂̏̍͊̋̈́̅͛̈͋̏̒̇͌̃̊̎͜͠ŵ̓̑ͨ̐͋̆ͦ͑ͭͫͨͭ̓ͩ͛ͭͧ҉̣͉̠͓̦̠̤͖̥̩̤͖̺̲͉î̫̗͎̞̺ͤͤͯͯ̾͑̽͂̃̓̇̑̃̚̕͠e̸̶͉̬̲͇̼̮͇̺̥̥̬̦̱ͣ̈ͭͮ̈́ͪͥ͗̅̓͝ļ͓̤͔̻̔͐͛̉̅͛ͮ͠d̸̗̲̦͓̮̔̊͊͌̆͛͐̎̆̏̍͆͢͟é̴̴̻̣̮̩͍̤̮͔͎͓͖̺̣͙͈̦̰ͩͣ̊̌ͨ̆̕r̨̨̢̤͈̻͇̗̝̆ͯͣ̏̓̆̔̌̽ͥ͑̅̀ͦ̓̽ ̸̸͋ͩ͒͐̓͗͒ͥ̒̓̐̆ͣ̂ͮͨ̚͏̟͈͚̩̮̯̫̘͓̦͉͕͜ͅt̵̠͎̟̜͕͇̝͙̦̲̓̊̑̔ͧͫ̉̊̎̽̐͑ͤ̉́ͫͦơ̸̡̡̰͚̬͚̯̙͓̟̒ͩ̔ͭͣͣ̆̌̑͑̆̏̇͊ͤ͑͟ͅͅ ̴̴̙̪̰͙̲̱̻̘̬̣̙̰̙͍̠͓̘͚̬ͦ̒̈̅͟͞͡k̘͓͇͉͗ͭ͗̈́̽ͧͧͯ͌̚̕͢i̷ͨ̽̿̓͒̂ͮͭ͆̋҉̤͚͔̺͉̩̰͚̗͇͇͓̻l̶͓͎̜̭͙͖͖̫̭̯̱͈̲̳̖͂ͧ̓ͫͨ̀͋̇ͫͦͪ͆̽͠ͅl̴̛̮͙̱͇̺̫̣̜̖̹̬͕̲̼̦̰͑̋ͧ̊̏̈́̉̔ͫͪ ̵̩͔͙͚͍̥̮̦̩̟̣̹͕̍̅̌̑ͬ̑͑ͬͣ̈́͌̔ͪͭ̋ͯ̋͢͟͞ͅͅų̣̟̳̲̓ͤͫ̌́̏̓̆̓̓̑́̽̊̄͑́̕͡n̢̤̞̮̼̖͈̲͈͎̫̈́͌ͨ̊̑ͤͣ̅̊̈́̊͋ͪ̃̔ḧ̷̜̺̠̘̘͎͓̰͕͙̮̲͇̤̱͍́́͂ͥ͊ͨ̓̆̊̑ͫ̂ͭͧͮ̕̕͡i̛̿̾ͪͫͧ̏ͪͪͫͤͦ͟͏̗̣͈̰̣̦͖̣̩̝̺n̶̵̹̮̣̤͉̏̓̈́ͮͬͤ͛̿ͤ̾͊ͥ͑̉̚̚̕͘ḓ̷̢̛̥̹̯̘̦̖̑ͭ̐ͣͪ̕ͅȩ̜̼͙͉̻̱̟̬̯̋̂̇ͮ͌͗̑ͣ̀ͦ̍̋ŗ̩̝̭̜̟͖̜̼̞̭͓̥͇̺̘̬̮̣̇̌̇ͩ̊̽̽̿̈́͑͋̚̕͢eͣ͗̃̆͐̀͠͏͎̦̱̗̘̩͕̜̠̗̼͢͡ḑͮ͊̃̒ͭ̊ͣ̔̉ͫͬ̊ͩ̇ͦ͞҉͕̥̠͚̫̬̟̗̮͉̺̱̼̗̣,̵̨̼̮̲͈̬̗̞̌ͥͯͫ̓ͥ̂͋͟ͅ

 

̫̖̥̻̥̗̖̘̭̐̑̇ͤ̐̒͌͞s̳͙̙̯̼͎̙͉̗͎̣͇̦̩͉̪͚̻͗̓̄̎ͤ͋̄̆ͧͥͦͦ̄ͬͧ͋ͬ͟͟t̷̶̸̷͈̩͚̖̺͓̑́ͣ̃̒̈́̓̓̏̉ͨ̎ͣ͋̇͛͞ͅa̧̧͎͇̙ͯ̾̏̋̾̊ͩ̅͋͞͡ͅr̜͓̼̪̳̥͔̼͈̲͖̻̳̐̓̑̂t̛͓̯̹̖̺̗̘͎͌́ͮ̎̾ͦ͠ȇ͌͋̇̌͂̅ͯ̍͂̒̇̊̽ͭ̅ͪ͛͠҉̸̵̦̜̝̳͓͇̭̮͓͈͎͇̘̪̬̯̥̤͞d̡̗̱̼̩͇̩̩̲̙̯̟͖̖̦̭̼̊̆ͫ̆̃̍̂̍̕͡ ͌̓ͭ́ͫ̀̈́́͏̸̸̢͇̩̦̳͖͓̭̰̝̹s̛̿ͬ͑͌̿͐̿́ͦͦ̎ͩ́͊ͫ̚̕҉̟̳̞͖̩̖̟̳̜̭̟̰̻̥̥̱̪̟̹͝u̎ͬͯ̑͑͑̃̓̆̅ͤ͑ͮ̔ͩ̽̚͟҉̨͏̺̫̳͈̗͔̩̲ŗ̸͕̹̖̩̪̰͎̖̫͉͙̭̰͉͓̻̉͒͛̄͊̂̈ͨ͊̑͌̓ͯ̇̀̚̕f̨̜͉̣͇̞͐́ͫ̇͋ͭͭ̌̓͘a̎͗͌ͮ̒̓̈́́҉͜͏̸̙̲͔̳͉̹̘̫̥̜͙̥c̰̤͔͉̼̠̪͉͍̤͓̼̰̗̘̗̫̖̹ͭ̏̉̈́ͦ̅ͭͬ͒͌͒͆͐ͫ̚͟i̷̢̊͌̊̾̽ͤ̉͒̆͢҉̣̣̠̣̹̤͇͎̞̘̤͎̟̟̹̳̻͇n̶̶̗̝̞̱̭̥̬̟͕̤̮̟̼̬̓ͦ́͆͊ͩ̊̐̈́̓͋̒̓̚g̲̻̠̟̓͑̀̉̈̅ͣ̒͐ͤ͂ͦ̈́́͘͘ ͣ̉̇ͤͣ̓̍ͯͮ͗̓̔̈҉̡̝̲͉̜̙̳͙̺͙̞̠̮̫̹̳͓͢͡a̡͉̭͍̜̣͚̱̱̦̮̘̠̩̬ͭ̐̇̉̽ͬ͝ș̡̥̫̺̼̹̣͕̠̘̩̱̠̠̰́̇ͯ͗͢͠ ̵͈͚̩̗̯͍̲̰̯͍̗͖̫͈͐̈́ͣ̑ͯͯ͒ͣ̓̒̆͡I̧̨̡͐́̀̆̄̄ͭ͂͗͂ͥ͒͗ͭ̚͜͏̼͇̩̣͇̩̼̳̬ ̧̧̧͍̳̙̱̮̮͍̠̗͖̼̿ͫ̓́̔͘͢p̞͎̣͓̬̤̲͍͕̱̩͚͔͈͒͋͌̄̈́̆͆͗̀̋ͬ͂ͦͫo̶͕̫̺̩͙͖͉̬̼̪͓͕͙̗̥̠̯͔ͮ̅ͧ̂͐̾̈̃͛ͮͪ̊̕ư̈́ͪ͋̌ͣͧͭ͑̄̌̂̅̅̓̈́̽́̚͏̸͚̮̹͙͎͚̤͔͟r̵̸̫͎̪͎ͪͮͭͦ̇̀̂͗ͭ̒ͩ̎́ͫ̄ͣ͆͒͜ē̡̬̰͈̻̱̞̼̯̟̟͊̄̓͆̐͢͝ḍ̞̳̮͈̰̹̜̝̰̭̲̗̝̭ͣ̌́͐ͩ͊ͪ̆͛̉ͩ͂͒̈͡ ̵̡͕̦̱̘͎̳̭̪̠̼̯̎ͯ̓́̃ͦ̓͢ͅo̵͎̥̘͇̗͉͖͗͑̌̓̊́̐̇̏ͭ͒̽͗̉̽̂͆̽ͦ͠͞͠v̷̢̥̲̤̻̬͕̖̲͉̥̣̓͒ͮ̎̓̕͞ͅȩ̛̮̬͍̰̝̼̻̟͓͕̟̬̅̋ͩ̓ͩ̑̆̔̈́͛ͨ̉ͨ̆̀ͣ̚̚͟ȓ̶̷̡̛̺͔͇͔ͯͪͧͨͮ̃̈́̓̄̉ͨ̂ ̵͖̦̘̠̪͗ͦ̀̆ͪ͟͞͝ṯ̶̜̬̹̝̯̲̭͉ͮ̍̈̂ͬ̓ͪͯ̎̃ͨ̀͋ͧ̚ȩ̨̤̜̘̝̼͉̬͍̺̩̗̳́ͦ̉ͥͯ͌̾͊x̆̾ͧ̋̒̆̎̂͛͋ͪͮ̚҉̸̢̧͓̙̘͖̱͖͚͞t̅͌̾҉̨̨̛͖̦̱͕̪̦͔̜͓̦s̴̜̙̺̠̟̹̣̮͆̑̄̏͌̈̊̊͂ͪͦ̊͊ͨͮ̚̕͞͡ͅ ̶̲̜̩̖̞̜̦̣̲̩̯͈͕̠͙̝̰̫̃̏͑͂̿͌́̐ͤ̿ͩ̓͛͠ųͥ̈́̏̎̉̌̍̇͋̍͐ͣ͜͏̼̞̝̰͈͙̰͍̠͍̣̬͈̞̦ͅp̶̴̏ͣ̂̎̅̌ͤ̍͛̽͒͒͗ͪ͑̆͏͈͉̝͍̱̟̫̱͉̦̜̩̻̜͙̞̯̟̠͢͟ŏ̅͊ͯ͛͛̉̋͋̑̔̂̈́҉̴̸̨͍̜̰̪̥͟n̷̪̯̖̭̪͕̺̝̹̮̒̉̀ͣ̈́͑ͤ̑̄͂̊̂̈́̈́̚͜ͅ ̢͍̞͇̞͖̝̜̏ͫ̂ͤ̌ͫͦ̃̂͑ͦͤ̍̌͛̕͘͜͞t̸̨̢̤̹̼̼͕̪̭̻͙͒͐̈ͥ̆̾͝e̴̤̰͙̖͔͇̭͓̤ͮ̒̌̓̽̋̓ͩ̽̓̌̽̓ͧ̃͑͜ͅͅx̡̖̜̹̫͋̃̿̄ͯͦ̂́͋̍̂͒͌̾ͤ̆ͥ̎͆͘ṫ̜̩͉̬͚̻̤͈̲̹̩̹̳̠͇̯͓̉̑ͨ͆̓͗͛ͬ́̈̋͑́͐͑̚͞ș̶̡̛̛̙̫̳̠̟̜̲̣̞̠̼̪̤̭͈̅̎̍̈͗̒ͯ̽̉ͦ̍͌͗̔ͬ,̡͚̗̝͍̥̖̖̠̗̮͈̥̭̣͍͓̫̒̓ͬͨ͠ͅ ̩̰̯̰͈̻̝͓͎̼̤͚̟̯͇̜̗ͬ͛̽ͤ̿̾̋ͯ͒͞ͅa̢̲̯̗̗̖͇̰̟̖̭̝͇͒̏̃̇̋̅̒ͣ̊̏̑̑͝͞͡ͅñ̵̡̢̹̹͔̫̱͚͚̤͎̗̮̻̲̭̟̭̩͙̓̒̐ͦ̐̎͌̍̿̍̿̓͡d̷̡͕̪͔̗̔ͭ́ͮ͒̒̆̃̈̔ ̸͛̑ͣ̆̏͑̓̏ͭͯ҉̛҉̣͖̲̳̲̜̺̣͖̩̻t̵̨̑̃̔ͮ͒̔͏͘҉̥̖̪͎͉͔͚̜͎̟̳ͅhͧ̃̓ͤͭ̐͒ͤ̃̀̎͗̋ͮ͐̽͘͞҉͓͚̳̤̠e̡̻̺̖͊͗͋ͩͣͮ́ͮ̽͐͛͑͘͜͞ ̸̡̨͔̼̜͓̟̮̘͛̆̽ͭ͗ͩ̉ͪ̃͊̎̋̾͊̑̅ͤͯ̚͘͞ȏ͛ͩ̋̉̍̈́̈̑̓̈́ͫ̔̾҉̡̦̟͓͖̥̩͚͈̫̳̺͈̣̭b̷̲͔̥̱̞̝̘̝͙̆̑̎ͥ̏́͛ͤ̃̐͗͗̋̍̌͛̆̈v̧̛͓͎̘̩͚̺͛̅ͫ̍ͭ̐̈́̂͜i̸̡̊̉ͮͥͪͮͯ͒͛̃͗͝҉̙̮̦̗͟o̢̊̀̿̃̇ͨ̔̃ͬ̄͐͌̄̚͡͏̺̼̰͎̙̲̗̗̤̜͓̯̲̺̻͍̮̳̝ü̸̡̡̟̖͚̘̰͈̝̯̦̣̬ͩ͋̏̒̅̄ͮ̃̍̊s͑̇̎ͩ̐ͧͤ͗̂̉̏ͭ͐҉̵̵̡̧͇̣̣̳̜̮̦ ̵̡͎̯͎̞̥̹̟̾̅ͭͦ̓͂͡͡c̸̫͈̻̼̳̬̥͙̫̖͈ͮ͂̿̓̂͗̊ͧ̄ͯ͂͜ǫ̧̨̬̩̫ͧ̍͋ͪ͘͡n̵̡͒̆ͭͨͬ͊͊͠҉̙͓̣͖͎̯͖̟̫͎͇̜͕͉̗̞̝͚͎n͋̅̀ͬͨͥͮ̌͗͗̎̇͒̾̓̚͏̵̘̫̫̮̭̯͉͙̳̜̝͚̝̮͜ͅͅͅe̵ͮ̋ͫ͛ͯ͡҉̨͓͚̯̖͕͍̯͘c̛̻̜̤͖̰̠͍̆̉ͯͣ̑͒͘͢t̎̅̓̌ͣ̓͊ͪ̏͌ͩ̄̊ͯ̚̚҉̫̥͓̞į̸̡͓̻͇̙̼̻̱͙̻̪̭͂͌̃ͩ̒̋ͪ̈́̽̂͜͠o̾̏̊͑͏̞̤̟̖̗̖̙͍̭͕̫͎͈̻n̸͉͖̘̥̰͔̞̖̤̤͎̤̖͖͌̓ͨͫ͛̈́ͫ̅ͦ ̴̸̙̩͙̼̯͓̝̣̺̳͍̬̞͕͖̫͇̹ͬ̿͒̇̅͑ͨ̔͐ͨ̿͆̈͟ͅt̴̴̨̺̗̤͙̖͔͓̬̖̤̱̰̟͓ͩ̈́̌ͦ̂̄̑̃ͯͨ̐͟͜ö͇̻͓̱̣̤̠͍̺̭̬́͒̃̊̈́̋̋̚̕ ̺̠̭̈́͒ͪ͆̋̐̍̈̓̒ͭ̓̈́̅̚̕͘̕ͅs͌̒̒̍̿̎ͦ̅̒҉̸͉̦̳̳̪̳̘ǫ̸̴̧̳͇̝͈̯̭͂ͣ͒͐ͫ̍͋͒͝m̷̪̜͚̺̼͉̫͇̀̊ͨe̸̗̺̟̝̗͍͉ͪͭ̌̾ͧ̈́͒͊͗̂͝ ͭ͋͂̌ͩ͋ͪ̄̈̽ͤͯ̒͑͂ͭͤ̚҉̱͉̻͈̼̭̟͠s͊̏̀̓͑͊̊̐͗͡͏̺͚̼͙͈̝̮̩̙̙͕̼o̧̱̣̤̻̠ͥ̉ͤ̎͛̑̏̿̃̐̾͟͜͟͡r̛̹̳̭̮̙̲̗͓͆̾ͣ̽̓̿ͫ͗̊̆ͫ̿̆͌ͬ̏͟͡͠ť̸̺̗̭̬̰͔͎͚̰̙͇̰̰̻̽ͬ̿͌̒͒͞ͅ ̡̢͇̭̯̥̜̲͕͕̩͍̗͖̹̪̯̓̽͑ͯ̉̏̾͊ͤ̔͛̕͜͡ô̢̧̤̦̳̹̐ͨ̈ͦͧ̕͝f̛̮̪̲͙̻͓ͩ̓ͧ̔ͨ͐͗ͪ̾̿͊́̊̇̾ͤ̇͘͡͡ ̶̸̛̳͈̜̝̥̠̌̽̐̈́̽͐͗̂̊͆ͯ̈ͨͤ̿̉ã̢̪̲̙͎͉͙͕̰ͬͫ͛ͭ͆ ̡̖͔̠̰̤̫̩̞̼̫̪̖̓̇̓ͭͮ͌̔͗̓̓̓͌͆͑͊ͭͪ͛͡͞ͅd̷̵͕̗̹͖̙̫̥̟͚ͮ̑̉ͪͬ̂̍ͪ̿ͦͤ͆́̾͗͊ͅě̦̪̘̞̖͖̞͍͈̮̩̩̜͔̝̙͊̍̌̈̈́̽ͮͦͬ̕͞͞à̶͉͕̜̹̮͕̬̼͕̲̙̝̱͒̐̆̋̆ͩͤ͂̔͑̓ͪļ̷̧̬̬̱̜̱̭̟͚͇̮̒ͩ̒͐ͥ̃̔̀̍͊̂̑ͤ̅̽͐̓̽̚͝,̏̀̓͆͐͘͟͏̰͚̞̹̘͍̥̜͙͇̯͚̠̲ ̶̷̡̡͓̳͕̰̅̈́ͥ̆̚͡t̵̤͕̪͚͉̗̤͖̲̠̫̳̗̮̥̼͎̏̿ͨ̋̍̑͒͌̋̇ͅő̴̹͖̬̯̘̖̣̹̻͔̳̬̖̑̈́̂̄ͤ̇̈̐̄͑̍̕ ̶̘̟̪͕͈̥͉̰͍̜̦̲̱̖̤ͪ̄̋ͧ̋ͦ̈́͆ͣ̃̅͢͞b̴̶̨͍̥̯̤̫͍̬̱̙̯̼ͨ̉̎͋ͯ̑̇̀ͪ̍ͧ̅͋ͥͤ̃̐̕ͅe̐ͩ͊ͫ̓ͣ̕҉̵҉̙̖̜̦̘͈͍͈̳̗̦ ͚̳͍̳̫͓͍̳͇̟̟̟̓̆ͯ͐̊̂ͦͤͨ̈́́ͦ̉̆ͭͤ̚͘͝m̶͇͔͍͉̙͔̩̭͉͔̼͙͕̱̝̳̗ͨͬ̋̏̆̿ͪͦ͒ͨ͌͛͜ả̸̧̖͔͔̩͔̯̺̺̩̪̞̳̹͇͔̫̃̌ͥ̄̚̕d̛̞͖͍ͦ̊̄͐̍͂̓́ͪͧ̚̚͘ͅe̍̑̈͌̐̾ͮ͐̂̃͏̖͖͇̻̯͔̻̯̦͇͎̼͘͟ ̡̢͙̫̻͉̂̀ͦ̌̌ͭ̔̾̇ͣw̴̴̧̽̄͋ͦͯͮͩͣͦ͆҉̣͎̯̭̖̤͙̠̟̥͔͇̗̖̭ͅi̛͈̮̞̜͈̟̖̜̯͈̖̗̫̹̻̼͕̦͆̾̏͛ͩͭͥ͜ͅt̴̪̠̟̗̯͎͚̉̊ͬͮͦͥͦ͞h̸̼̱͕̹̟̙̞͓͕͚̩ͧ̿ͪ̏ͤ̀̃ͭͯͦͪ͠ ̨̟̰̖̱͔̣̦̃ͭ̔̔͝t̵̶̨͕̮͇̰̮̝̣̩͕͐͂̓̀̃̉̔͋ͬͥ̀ͣ̑ͬ̐̓̚h̷̸̸̡͙͇̜̤̠͎͍͇͙̻̃̿̃͌̾͛ͥͫ̏̑̋͂̆ͅͅe̶͙̜̹͍͙͉̩̖̪͂͒̑͊͑̋́̏̓͐͛̐̔ͥ̍̒̆ͅ ̴̵̲͈̠̺̼̞͙͇͇̮͎̻̪͕͓ͮ̽̄̏̿͋̊̆̓̇͋͗ͬ̆̍̅ͥ͐͞͠b̴̡̠͕̬̤̭̖͙̳͈̹̭̽ͯ͗̿̓̆͢͠ͅl̢͚̙̗̙̘͛ͭ͆ͨ̈́́̑̃ͦ̑ͪ̄̽ͬ̑͋̏͟ǎ͊͌̅̔̔̌ͬͬ͛͛̋̈́̇͏̴͕̖̣͙̖̯͓̰̝͉̮͙͉̦͕̤̥͚d̶͑̅̍̈͑ͩ̔̅͛̆ͣͤͨ҉̛͈̗̺̹ę̴̟̺͎̣̝̹̖̟̭̹̃̀̑̉͛̀̀̇͋̽̃̌'̩̼̜͇̱̝̱̭͔̬̩̲͔ͣͭͤ̋͋ͯͥ̎̾͛ͫ̆͟͞s̴̝̱̹͍̅̅͒̍ͦͩ̐̏̈́̓̒ͤͧ͗̑͊̄̕ͅ ̵̧̧̫̳̫̰̥̗̩̭̠̗̤̝̠̠͖̯̲̻ͫͮ̂̔̉̾̓ͨͯ͛͗̅̎͌͗̿̉̒̚ͅm̡͍̞̝̟͓̜̺̝̭͖̼̰͋ͨ͛̔ͬͮ̾͘ảͣ̔̋̐̅̾̿ͨ͌̉̉̓̒̚҉̵̷̛͕͙̱͉̭̝̪͎͇̯̟̱̦͚͖͈̤̣͝ͅk̴̻̭̙̰͂͂̇̓̃̒ͨͪ̑ͦͮ̃̌ͣ̌͠e̷ͮ͌̉͂͛̄̊ͮͬ̍͛́̏ͦ͋ͣ̂̚͏҉̝̖̮̱͓̳͓͔rͦ̑͌ͧ̔̈͛͂͗̏ͦ̚͏̢͈̤͍̼̙

 

̡̨͇͚̦̦̜͍̹͈͎̹̮͎̰͔̍͂̃͛̌͋ͥ̑̌̐͗͊̾͠-̡̳̘̗̟͐͌̄̃͑͞ ̋͋͆̋͆̎̒͗͗ͪͧ̍҉̷̣̱̯̪͓̜͎̹͓͇̮̱̼̤̼̞͝͞p̶̨̡̖͇̙͇̘̣̌̀̿ͥͤͫ̏͛̿̀̐̈́ơ̴͕̦̱̮͓̬̳̫̺͎͂̋̑̅̉̃̔̍̏ͫ̂̕s̨̛͓̙̭̹̦͕͓̔̆ͫ͊͗ş̤̭͇̙̻̭̖̣ͮ̽̾̅͛̈́ͧ̊ͮͦ̉ͯͮͦ̅͋̋͞͝iͭ͆͛̎̿̔ͨ͋̌͋̚͝͏̝̝̼̯̞̲̱͓̞̤͓̮̕ͅbͭ̿ͯ͒̑́ͯ̉̒͗̉҉̷̴̢̻̟̯͓̫͍͔͙͕̥͓̬̕l͗ͭ͆̑ͩͧ͗̒̈̊̓̈҉̵̘̰̗̞͎̙̙͉̳ỳ̷̧̠̦͓̬̦̙̪̘̖̠̹̞̦̘̗̙̩̤̃̿͋̑͘͡ ̵̛̛̭̤̯̲͎̮̓̃̌̓͂ͪͭą̸̴̵̶̼̫̱̟̮̖̳̻̹̾̀͑͛͛͑̄͗͌̅́̎ͅ ̵̛͉̙̳͈̜̝͎͍͉̺̩̲̲̥͈͆ͥ̀̒͆ͧ̈ͮͥͬ̓͂̚͜͝d̢̤͖̗̥ͯͭ̈ͭ̏ͫͣͧ́ͬͦ͊̓̐̒̕ę̸̴̛̘̙͕̜̼̗̖͎͌̂̓̃͆̎͢v͑͒ͯͤ̂̑̃̀̋̇ͥ͋͑̉̉ͫ̒҉̹̙͙͉̫͖̼͢i̴̶̛̭̥̩͎̩̙̫̥͎̩͖͍̘̹̭̦̱͙͒͑ͥ̔̇ͣ͌̎ͬ͐̒͢l̴̸̡̼̣̭̣͖̪̘̱͖̟̀͒̔͑̾͊̏̂ͨ̈͊̃̈͞,̼̜̠͔͐ͦ́ͤ̇̊ͬ͝ ̶̆̽̃̚͘͏̺͍͉͇͍̩̲̜͉̰͙̗͜͜ͅd͈̭͚͕͖͈͙̲̞̯̜̫͚̗̘͙͚̹̹̓̋ͨͭ̃̌̔͊ͯ̍̓͜͠͞é̸̸̥̬̳͕̳̠̦̩̭͔͇͇̻̠͓̫̿̆̓̾ͨ̓ͥ̍̽͑͒ͪ̏ͅm̛̱̘̠̰͍ͧ͑ͪ̌̇ͧ͌̎̐ͤͪ̀ͬͮ͂̓͢ȏ̸̸̻̹̤̤̖̿͆͌̀̎͊̌̄̚͢n̺͖͍̲͈̲̺̳̯̝̯̖̩̰̖͚̪ͭ͐̓̌̔̉̐ͯ̋̈͛̏͌͘ͅ,̨ͨ́ͯ͂̏͑̆̀͂͗ͧ́̅́͌̚͡͏̯͍̯̹͈͎͔͚̘͚̻̭͓͖̥͎̝̳ ̛͇̫̝͔̜͈ͥ̍͛ͣͦ͊͗͗ͩ͟͠͡o̝̠̱̫̼͉ͭ͒͐̆͛̈ͯ̄̄͟͢r̅͐͂͂̽̑ͤ̎҉̨̳͖̭̝̭̦͇̕ͅ ͊̀͐ͫ̔̄ͬ͋̀͏̵̢̢̗͚͇g̞̮͇͇͙̙͍̯͙͚̠͖̻̬̪̻ͮͦ̌ͥ͆͒ͪͥͦ̚͜ͅỏ́̂̃̌͂̓͡҉̖̯͍̱̮̟̦̱̦͢ḑ̴̴͎̗͍͇̖̰̞̣̗̣̬̰̟͍̜̙̬̱̂̐̇ͧ̀̔́̈̾ͥ̀̊ͮ͒͒͋͂̔͂ ̇ͨ̆̔̀̉̀͒̍ͥ҉͏͖͕͔̭͙̬̬̦̘̮̦̘̻̺̳̲̦̳ơ̷̶̲̳̗͇̈ͦ̽̌f̀̀ͮͨ͏̘͉̞͔̝͙͓͞͞ ̸̛̫̟̟͎͕͔͖̰̮͔̪͕̥͍ͣͫ̔͆̊̓̑̈́̓̔̅ͣ̄̂͆p̛̯̝̞̫͇͚̥̘͕͉̪̬͗ͣ͐̓ͧ͟͟ü̐ͬ̂͂ͮ̓ͧͮ̇̚͏̹͍͔͖̝̪̞̫̞̘̪̫̫͢͞ͅr̶̷̨͍͍̝̹͓̰̯͎̻̥̙̹̎̉̒̊͒ͭ̾ͬ́̑̐̀e̸̜̼͎̞̪͉̻̤̣͍͈͕̓̆̂̃̔̆̊ͪ̾ͯ͑̾͌ͩ͠͝ ̐ͬ͒̓̾̾ͬͨ͟҉҉̴̥͎͓̠͍̙̜̥̬̭͉͔̳ê̜͇̺̰̗͙ͦ͂ͫ͂̏̋̅͂ͬ̔̆̌̚̕͢v̴͉͓̰̟̳͙̝̭͇̯̠͙͎̘̖̥̉ͧ͌ͥi̴̢͈̗̞̪͍̫͇͔̍͛ͯͧ̿̓͗́͆͌͗̐ͨ͂̒ͪ̚͘͜͠l̩͉̪͙̗̰̩̙̦̗͈̝̳̒͋͂́̈́ͣ̎ͧ͒̇̋ͬ̃ͫ͊ͮ̽̉͘ ̲͍̹̗̟̫̤̭̗̼͇̣ͤ̑ͩ̆ͣͪ̀͒̈́̎̂̌͑͐͊͘͘͡ͅ-̵̧͎̣͚͍͈̦̣̓̃ͭ́ͨͮ̊̌̀ͥ͋̐̓̾͗̃ͬ̔ͯ ̢̨ͤͭ̇̐̑҉̘̱̳̩͍̼̟̪͙̖ͅṁ̨̢͖̰̩̬͕̲̰ͮ̓́̀̐̎͋ͩ͑̐ͫ̂͂͊͋͆a̵̡̱͉̤̳͎ͯ̈́̈́̌͊dͩͯ̊ͬ͋͏̨͙̯͔̱̫̜̥͉͍̬̟̯͙̖͡ȩͤ̓̅̂̇͡҉͕̦̻͉͈̣̱ ̴̉ͩ̍ͨ̿ͪ̈́͗͗͆ͤ͆̉ͩ͠҉͔͍̮͕͍̙̖͓̯͉̻̫͘͢m̧̯̝͓͇̐ͦͦ͘͟͟͝ȇ̸̞͙̥̥̤̗̰͇̳̖̯̣̺̺̥̩̜͐ͬͧ̓̀͐͊̎͊̀ͥ͗̌̋̚̕͡ ̷͈̮̮̼̣̰̣̱͚͂͂ͥͧ̃̉̒͟͠į̙̪̱̗̮͙̯͇͗̿ͥͮ͋̈́̐̋͛ͥ̎̂̔ͥ̈́̄ͤ̿̕ͅn̥̦̬̞̝̩̤̞̟̙̪ͫͧ̈́̓̏ͤ̄̊͐͛̌̂ͦͦͯ̚͡c̵̨̱̞͙̟̼̰̹̘̳͖̙̭̱͉͌̅ͩ̎̍́ͩ͌͑r̛̰̜̠̟̱̻̳̗̗̭̹ͣͥ́̂̐͊͛̈ͮ͂ͥ͒̍ͥ̄ͪ̚͝ȩ̶̛͎̹̘̠̍ͫ̓̒̾̆͛ͤ́́͗̎ͪ̿̂̄̕͢ḑ̸̡̛̤̪̳̣͓̳͈̙̩͓̈̀͊̽ͩ͑͑͛̽̚i̮͈̼̜̞̬̰̯̻ͬ̀͐̆͒ͯ͌͜b̨̧̘̙̰̤̓̾͑̒̅ͦ͛l̷̻͕̤̗͚̰̟̤̜̺͕̘͓̔ͬ̆̏͆̓̍ͯ̐̂̃ͩ̄͗̀́̍͜y͚̙̰̺͓̿͑ͯ̅͘ ̴̛̘̻̪̱͉̯ͨ͌͒ͪ̔̒̈́͗̅̊ͣ͑͂͘͡i̷̱̹̝͖̞̳͋̉͆̇̈͆ṇ̸̡̛̫̝͓͚̹̠͚̗̣̹̲̟̲͓͙ͨͧ̇̏́ͨ̉ͤ̊ͩͩ͛̒ͦ͌̑̀̓ẗ́ͮ̅͗̒ͬ̋͆̈̾͏̡͔̰̱͈̼̥͙͕͖͖͖͚̙̱̳̟͡͞ͅȩ͉̭͇̞̺̟͓͒̎́̿ͯͣ̂̂̆̄́̕͢͞ͅŗ̧̫͈̙̫̣̔͑̉ͨ̒ͭ́͂͐͐̑̎͗͌ͦ̆͟͡͡ę̡̬̖̟͕̱̪͙͙̭̻͈̻͈̼̂͑͒̈́̅ͯ̕͜ͅs̴̡͓͕̳̯̥̝͖̝͖̹̤͓̪̗̪͚̩͗̀ͫ̿͗͋̌ͭ̃ͧͮ͛ͬͧ̿ͮ̈́ͥț̶̛͇͉̳̱̤͇̙̲̓ͥ̊̑ͯ͜͟e̡̛̟̗̲̹̱̯̬̮̝̻̘͔̺͖͇̰̣̯͓ͣ̒ͥͫ̚͟ḋ̫̼̱̱̯̭̤̝̖̪̳̺͙̗̣̫ͯ̑̐̓̂ͬ̒͜͞ ̸̖̩̮̹͕̞̲̩̠̜̻̝̝̘̲ͬͨͯ̔̎̅̌̒̃͋̔̏̀̍̓i̸ͥ̈́ͥͨ̉͏̲͚̗̱̫̪͚̖͔̳̭̬̭͟n͂̑͆̏̓ͥͫ̏ͤ̌̇͗͑̓͗̒ͩ̒͆҉̸̦̘̜̟͎̲͇̰̘͍̬̻̠͍̜͢͡͝ͅ ̷̞̥̫͉̼̩͔̼̹̺̬̳̠̩͖̟̓̈́̃͋ͭ̉ͅͅẗ̵̨͖̬̗̟͔̦̥̠͕̩̠̱̯͍́̒̃͗͊ͨ̀ͭ̈ͪ̃͋h͉̮̤̻͇̱͓͖̩̘͔͉͚͍̞̦ͥͧ̅̐̐͌ͧ͆ͮͭ̏͘͢͜͞͡ͅe̛̟̱̻̗̹͔͕͉̗̮͒ͪ̀ͣ̉̀́͒̄͋͒̾͋̕͘ ̡̜̰̘̳̼̤͎͖͍͎̺̹̪̣̬̬́̊̐̑͆̋̐ͦ̽̆ͯ́̎̑̿̿͜͡s̷̻͉͎̃̈ͭ̐͂̉̒̓̏͑̈́̅ͯͪͥ̊ͩ̚͟e̷̶̟̼̤͍̠͍ͭ͐̌̿ͤͥͥͪ̐͋̉ͮͨ͂̾͌͘ç̗̳̻̺͔̗̞͔̘̫̥̖͍̪̤͖̰ͧͮ̔͊ͬ̚͘͜ͅŗ̷̟̳͔̱͖̞͉͚̜̱̫̯̉͛͂͋͌̋̒ͥ̌̏̀͡ệ̸̶̶̦͍͎̻̯̤̟̲̭̣̺̤͍͙̽ͭ̿ͣͬ̊̏̉ͬ͒̀̓͠ͅṱ̸̨͎̺̋ͪ̾ͯ͂ͪ̅̀ͣ͗͆ͬ͊ͅs̸̨͍̝̜̪̹̬̯̭̼ͩͯ͂̐ͫ̎͗͂ͥ̅̎ͦ̓̔͋́͠ͅ ̛̿́̔̑̍̌̍̃̿̇̃ͩͥͧͩ͊̓̆͟҉̩̞̩͓̩͕̞̬̟͓̠̖͇̮̤t̛̬͍̯̫̤͙͇̊ͨ͛ͩ̇̐͒̏̓͆ͥ͑͘ͅͅh̨̛̳̣̳̹͍͖̝̭͓̘͌̐̆̊ͫ̍͋̓̀̓̽̃̐̑̚ẽ̄̿̊̂̒͊͏̶͉̖̗͎̦̹͙̺̯̞ ̧̨̠̱̳͉̞͉̱̯͖̜͉̯̩͚̬̫̙̹͖ͯ̀ͥ̎͊d̠͚͉͈͈͓͚͔̤̰̪̗̥̹̳̿ͩͪ͒ͬ͜͞ȁͤ̎ͬ̆̍̍̽͋́͘͠͏̴̩̬͇̹̙̱̣̹͎̹̮ĝ͑̃̂̆̽̒̎̚̚͠҉̦̲͓̻̲̖̳̝̹̹͘g̷̭͍͕̯̤̭̥̦ͫͥ̂͋e̩̰͍̖̘̬̙̦̤̖̫̘̞͑̒̄ͮ̎̄̋͟͝͠ṛ̷̜̮͚͈̼̞̹̖̲͔̍ͫ̑̽̈ͥ͌̌͘ ̢͖͍͕͓͔̟͈̻̩̮̘̙̠̜ͦͨ̏̂̄̓̅͒͋̏ͤͩ̈͛̎͛͠c̷̻͉̣͕̩̱̙̤͚̹̦̐ͨͭͫ̐͒̏̉͢o͇̤̺͈̩̺̠̲̬̟̪̬̪̟͔̒͂̂̑̊ͮ̿̓̒̓͆́ͮ̈͜ͅu̵͉̫̬̩͍̰̾̈́̀͆ͥ̅̆̎ͫ̊ͬ̏͑̃ͥ͢l͇̲̫̭̝͚̗̲͍̣͈͎͔͍̖̮ͤ͐͒ͬͥ͊̄͘͜͜͟ͅͅḑ̦̮͇̼͔̪̪̜̝ͯͯ̓͂̈͊͢ ͉̤̱̼̙̟̳͓̗̯̙͍̼̄ͥ̔̆͜͠͝͠ͅh̶̢̢̹̲̺̖͉̼͉̼̠̠̩͓͎̊͐̍̆̈͋̐̈́̽̈̃͛ͩ̐͘ͅỏ̷̸̠̱̻̫̍͌ͥ̅̎̅ͯ̉̂͑ͮ̈́̔͘͟l̨ͤ̈́̍̄̾ͯ̈ͪ̎ͥ͒͌͏̷̡͙̟͙͔͈͇̫̭̰̰̼̙͎͕̫͙d̵̢̯͕̰͖̞̗̙̺̲̦̞̪̟̼̮̺̥͚̓̀̅̈̓̽.̨͙̥̠̳̮͎̫̭̳̈́ͩͧ̑͞

 

́ͯͪͨ̓҉̵̡̧͕͚̪̲͝ͅI̸͛́̉̽̌̐͊ͤ̓̓̇̑͏̡̱̯̦͇͎̘͕͈̭̭̖ͅf̛̠̪̙̙͚̼̰̟̭̝̦͖̰̙ͨ̌͛̽ͣ̽̿̔ͦ͛͢͠ ̫̤̖̻̗͍̭͔̪̟̝̼̟̞̭̱̤̳ͩ͒ͭ̈͒̃̔͋̕͝͠I̸̹̟͍̻̻͖͍̲͈͉̗͈̦̊ͤͪͪ͋ͩ͡ͅͅ ̴̷̝̲̤͍͚̖͖̲͈̹̂̍ͩ͛̓̍ͯͦ͒͌̈̋̃ͧ̈́͂͑m̸̷̪͖̙͎͎͔̯ͨ̃ͦ́͐͗ͅͅa̞̳̼̮͎͇͎͎̟͕͖̲͎̥̺͍ͣ͛̿̈ͭͭ̄ͨ̎ͦ͒̍̓̓͟͞ͅṅ̵̋̆̈̐̎̏̃͂̔̏͠͞҉̺͚̩̬͍̹̯͓̤̥̱͍̭͙͓̱a̶̛̖͎̗͚͙̙͕̲̯̘͑̽̐͒̈́̌ͬͮͩ͋͘͢ģ̩̮̘̝̲͇͚̆̒ͫ̍͐͗͘͞è̴̘̭̹̻̱͓͎͚͕̟̱̍ͮͩͮ̓ͅd̵̵̷̡̻̠̲̘̮̱̭͔̩̮̟̒̑̿ͩ̇͌̆̍̚͠ ̸̧̧̜̞͉̲̞̺͙̹̞͎̯̥̟͔̥͕̺ͩ̉̃͋̂ͦ̌̍ͦ̀͡ͅt̢̢̡͎̣̲̼͉̦͖̬̣͕̹̦͚ͭ̐ͤͨ̐͋́͗̅͛̈́̔̈́̓̃̚͘o͚͈͖̘̰̥̜̹͓̊ͤͥ̃ͨͤ̅̇̃̈͝ ̻͙̞̼ͤ͂̈́ͮ̍ͭ͒ͬ̔̔͗̅͌ͧ̏͜͡ͅd̢͚̯̣̫͈̖̲̦͓̦̘̺̝̹̲ͩͤ͌ͣ̚͘͜͜͝ĩ̥͇̰͚̤̦̩̬͍̯͍̟͖̫̖̼̖ͧ̓̈́͆̚͞͝s̵̡̱̖͕͓̰͖͆ͦ̇͌̑͂͢͢͝ͅc̷̵̙̦̫̠̜͓͈̟͎̻̣ͥͯ̈̔̔ͅͅͅo̳̝͚̮̺̪͙̰̦̮͉̭̥͙ͦ̾̄̓̇͑͊͌ͬ̂̈͜͠͝v̐ͪͮ̓ͯ͌ͧ̆҉͈͚͙͙ę̷̡̟̺͎̙̹̘̖͕̤̪͖͔̣̲͎̜͙̯̗͆̇͌̔ͨͯȑ̨̗̫̗̮̺̺̲̪̘͇͎̼ͭ̒̋̾ͣ̋ͪ̏ͩ̒ͯ̐ͧ̀̅̕͢͠ ̵̵̶̘̦̬̘̻͚͍͔̰̊ͣ̏ͬͩ̋̈́͂ͦͦ̆̏ͥͫ̑̑ͮ̋͆͜m̴̨̢̛̛̩̺͇͈̬̦͇̘̰̹̘͓͚̟̗̭̆̀ͭͫͮ̀̏̿̎̓́̎͐ͅơ̧̬̤̱̬͕̗̱̘̪̟͍ͪ́͂͛ͨ̉̏̉́̊̒ͣ̀͢͞ŗ̡̈͗̍ͪ̄͛̊̇͂͏̴͍̺̥̘̬̘͎͖͈̦e̴̴̫͓̘̣͍̟̜ͣ͛͐ͣͦ͑̽ͫ̑ͮ̓̂̓͆̈ͨͨ̇ͪ͘͢,ͭ̓̾́͂ͧ̊ͧ̚͏̛̺̠̭ͅ ̷̨̛̜̮̤̠̤͉̥̦̯ͮ̅͋ͭͣͥ̎̐̾̃̄̆̎ͩ̕I̴͍̠̘̳̠̻͉͓̰̮̝̺̮̭̯̩ͥͫ͂ͣ͒͋ͦ̍̊͊͒̌ͩ̐̌ͫ͐͠ ̵̛̿̉ͧ͛ͮ̂̎̾҉̷̶͓͍̱̘͓c̴̤̥̥͔̩̹̪̯̻͇̣̜̓͆̇͋ͅo̴̐ͤͦ̈́̈́͡͞҉̨̳͈̬̳̱͚̗͕̠̗u̟̳͇̭̲͎̣̭̭̘̹͉̇̑̒́̈̐ͮ̉͋̈́ͩͪ͟͟͡l̶̟̺̟͓͍̳͕̰͈̹̟͓ͥ̎̿̚̕͟͠d̴̶̻̪͖̘͎̲̮͗ͬͧ̈́̿̃ͦͫ̕͘͝ ̅ͭͮͪ̎ͮͯͨ̓͏̣̹͙͚͔̘͍̕p̴̢̤̯̦̜̺͚̼̦̙͉͖͉̏̽̈́͋͗̊̐̈́͆̑e̵̛͎̪̲͍͓͖̮͙̯͎͉̱̠̒̆̍̅̉͐͐̂ͤͤ̂̋̋͘͟͝r̷̨̨͙̪̞͔̩̥͈̤̙͔͙͉͐ͨ͊͐͂ͯ̎̔ͅḧ̸̴̛͔̹̳̬̱̪̞́̎̋ͥ̆̍̏ͣͥ͊͑̏̃͂͟͠a̸̛͎̖̺͍͎̻̱̹̲̠̗̮̔ͥ͊̂͐̎͋̽̓͂̃̄͞͞͡p̨͐͐ͨͨ̃͋ͯ̎ͦ͊͋͏̗̱̠̜͈̮̗̻̪̘̹͕̣͇̜̰̞ş̵̶̗̜͖̭̖̼̬̣̹̲͇̞̏̔̌ͮ͂̑̈́̇ͨ̓̽̀̚͟ ̴̴͔̳͈̺̼͚̼͔͕͚̣͇͖͉̺̥̼͛͌̓ͫ͋̃͋̈͒ͬ̔͆͌̚̕ͅf̸̛̹̯͉̖̮͋͋̈̆̒͒͛͘͟i̭͕͖̼̋̆̅̔̀̈́͂̃̽̊ͬ͌̔͊̃͑͗ͮ͘͜͢͢n̄̑̍̌̔̄͡͏̳͕̠̩̟͇̼̺̹͓̜̜̥̯̥͚̯̯ͅd̛̬̲̘̪̪͓̜̘͈͖ͩͨͬ̍͋͊ͯ̈̒̎̀͛̿ͤͨ͘ ͕͙̱̖̭̩̦͎̪̟̤͇̽̀̇̌͒̀͛ͮ̐̃̉͜͟͞͝͝v̵̧̳̤̙͈͙̱̖̫̲̤ͫͮͦͯ͂͠ì̵̵̧̥̣̱̟̳̲͖̩̝͍̞̫̦̭̱̺̲̿͂̓̈́͑ͫ̓ͫ̿͗͠ṭ̸̛̺͔̠̩̹̔̓ͥ̅̓̓̀̅̎̅ͥ͘ą̶̶̻̪͉̮̹͈̭̱̪͌̌̋ͤ̾̏ͦ͢ḻ̵̷̨̛̝̤̯̣͓̹̯̭̜̊̒̔̏̔ͨͥͩ͐ͥ̚ ̷̦͚̜̱̝̥̬̹͖̤̪͙̟͈̪̀̏ͫ̈́ͯ̐̒̉͗͌̄͢iͫ͛ͤ͌͛̆̃ͤ͒͊̚҉̧̢̥̠̩͖̟̬͕̹̝̦͈͡͞ͅn̨͈̟̝͚̞͓̱̥͕̭̤̘̟̪̱̥̆̃̉̍̅̆ͭ̈́̊ͦ͠ͅf̃ͧ̑ͨ̏ͯ̍̓ͤ̐̚҉͓̠̼̙̯̥̤͔̪̪͜ò̶̢̧̢̼̘̙̟̪̘͙̩̥͈̰̣̱̋̄͗͐̏͋̉̆ͅr̶̛ͧ̈́͒̎ͪ̅ͯͨ̎ͬͦͯͯͫ͏҉̶̫̥̬̺̥̪̦͉̯̩̠͚͚̞̦̭̙͎̙m̟̲̤̥̠̞̖̤͉̅̽ͦ̀̒͗ͬ͛ͭ͋̒ͥ̈͛̊̋͝͝ạ̩̠̟̯̰͍̲̥̱̹̫̭̦͙̭͕ͦͤ̐̿ͭ͌̎ͬ́̔ͫ̎ͨ̍͢ͅt̶̷̙̺͈̱̲͇̰̫̟̭͙̱̩͉͙͙̥̯̍̃ͦ̀͟ͅí̷̝͓͖̗̾͒ͬ̇ͨ̔͌ͭ̏͗͌̕͢͠ôͮ̾̒͐̊̇̈́̊ͥ͒͒҉̸̷̨̡͙̥̠̗̩̠̼̫̫̲͎͍̭̙ͅn̴̸̙̺̪̮̾͌̎̂ͮ͗̕ͅ ̵͎̖͙̪̗̤̝̮͈͕̣̠͓̗̩̳̭ͥ̋̋͆͆̐̅͒ͩ́ͦͨ̿ͧ̊̎͞ͅt̴̞͙͕̼̰̲̥̗̬̯̞͈̞̗͖͈̲̲̞̄̽ͣ͋̓͐ͣ͐̏͒̑̓ͦ̅̈́̎͗ͬ͜͠o͋͛̾͌̐ͧ̃̈̓̕͏̗͎̼͕͎̻̣̪̪̫̫̖̮̘̱̗̗̯̕͠ ̢͇͉͉̟͓̠͇̟̠̹̘̟͔̎̓̑̄͐̇ͬ̈́̋͗̂ͩ͑̓ͩ͘͢ͅͅh̛̑ͥ̂̓̇͆͛̀̄̿͏̷̵̞͉̫͚̝̻͇̜͍̦̪͍͉̥͔̘̱eͥͫ̌ͧ̌̑ͦͮ͢͏̶̖̟̬̱̤̱̘̮̜̝͚͓̞l̵̸̷̬͚͎̝̮͕̘̝͇͚̱͙̘̝̠̲ͧ͐̇̓͐ͧͧͅp̡̻͇̼̫̭̲̟̪̩̮͙̪̘̲͈͉̥ͣ̒̂͌̅ͣͫͬ̓ͨ̃̏ͦ̒̄̕ ̈ͤ̀́̉̑ͤ̔̽ͨ̐́̃ͯ͋͊́̌͏̸̪̼̺̮̦̖̩̹̙͍̱̮̼̺̱̤̤͜ḿ̴̢͉̮̼̹͚̝̣͙̬̌̄ͦ̉̕͟e̢̡̛̞̠̩̟̱̺̟ͣͬ͆ͫ̌̾ͫ̐ͤͧ̒ͩ͂̂ͦ̚͘͜ ̷̻͖̟̞̮̱̟̣͔̠̲̤̠̼̼͖̺̑̿̔͑͂̎ͫ̃͑̄͟͝o̔ͩ͗̌̀̑̅͋ͭ͊ͪ͋ͭ̈ͤͪ̚͘͟͝͏͍͖̘͓̻ṋ̶̶̢͓͚̻͇ͨ̎́̓̊ͮ͑ͅ ̵̢̡̣̣̗̼̜̖͔̋̑ͨ̒̒̑ͮͭ̇̇̈́́͋ͪ͒̚͟͠ͅm̢̢̺͕̼̮̻̠͙͙̤̦̦͔͓̭̱̜ͪ̇̇ͦ̔̍ͥ̄ͥ̂̃̈́̏̽̐̓͒̒͂͝y̵̍͂̆ͥ̏̍̎͑̾̓͡͡͏̺̣̝͉͍̙̖̞͉̱̜͓̺̰͇͝ ̨̛͈̘̣̉ͫ͊͋ͪ̽̀ͬ̈͞j̸̭̖͕̹̱̳̔̑̅͛̂ͩ̄̕͘o̷̔ͨ̃͊͏̶̦̫̠̯̠͓͖͇̝̙̻̫̜͉͇ų̼̮͚̭̬͖̬͌ͩ̈́͂̇̾̐̑͗̇ͯͨ͑̐͘͢͢͞r͒ͤ̊ͤ̉ͫ͆̃̂̾̃ͣ͗͌͂͠҉͡҉͓̭͖̻̯̦͉̹͘n̶̸̩̮̯̬̼̻̟͎̤̱̙̩̠̰̣͓̗̳̝͂̒̌̍͒̇e̵̴̛͍̳͙̺̹͎̦͔͍̳̰̬͙̘̬̎ͥ̆ͬ̉ͤ̂̑ͣ̉ͤ́͂͑̅̂ͤ̎̚y͉̟̫͕͇͚͍̪̗͙͉̗͊̔ͮ͂͟͠.̻͖̬͎̩̿̉͂̐͌͒͐̑ͩ̚͡͞

 

 

The Trail of Trials continues, and I will follow that path of knowledge – no matter how dreadful it might turn out to be – until I find satisfactory answers to uncover what others have never dared. Be it tales and lullabies, hiding truth in plain sight, or stories of legend, that no one would ever believe. Much of what I set out to explore in this tome is indeed fanciful, whimsical, hard to grasp. Perhaps only a child’s mind, set to broader horizons and more creative endeavours, could ever truly understand what is written along these lines.

Indeed, what lies hidden between the lies for all to find, for few to know.


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